A Dish Best Served Cold
by Wardown
Summary: This is Fourth in my post Season 8 series, and is set at the same time as The Road to War
1. Chapter 1

Patience is a deadly weapon in the right hands, but one that few warriors seem able to master. However, the Protector of Naath is one who can. He has waited fifteen years for this moment. He took his opportunities as and when they arose. The Imp was a notorious whoremonger. It took little difficulty for one of his agents to slit his throat, passed out drunk, after he had enjoyed her. It threw the government at Kings Landing into a chaos from which it has never recovered. Bronn Stokeworth was the next to go. The relatives of the Tyrells resented this upstart. A poisoned mushroom was quite sufficient to rid Highgarden of his noxious presence, and restore it to its true owners. The Reach will cause him no trouble when the time comes to strike. Grand Maester Tarly had choked on a pear; such a pity. It turned out that he wasn't much mourned at the Citadel after all. He has given military assistance to the Dornish, as they fight for their independence. Kings Landing still claims Sunspear, but that war is now as good as over. He would be tempted to strike at the false king, but the man is lost in world of his own by all accounts. Far better to leave an ineffectual king in place than run the risk of an efficient replacement.

He had been surprised to learn that the Queen of the North was profiting from the slave trade. She and her people had treated him with ill-disguised contempt, during their stay at Winterfell. Even so, he had not thought she would sink so low. But human beings will so often disappoint you. Still, this was to the good. His men had intercepted slave ships coming from the North, from time to time, and freed over three thousand people. Of those, a thousand men have been trained to fight, and are eager for vengeance, and a return to their homeland. Over the past five years, they have been sent in small batches to Pyke, along with over five thousand of his own veterans. It had not been hard to determine that the Pirate Queen shared his desire for vengeance. After a couple of naval defeats, Kings Landing had reluctantly recognised the Iron Islands as an independent country. However, the islands were barren, and famine was always a danger. Fortunately, Naath had an abundance of food. It had not been difficult to draw up a commercial treaty between the two countries, trading food for coal and iron ore. During the course of negotiations, it had become clear that the Greyjoy wanted to reverse the settlement at Kings Landing; and shared his need to obtain justice for the woman who had freed him from bondage.

After years of planning, it is now time to strike. Obtaining reliable information from the North has been a great deal harder than from the South. The Wolf Queen's Inquisiton is formidable, and more than one of his agents has died in her torture chambers. But, he has been able to build up an accurate picture over time. He knows the expression _It is better to be feared than to be loved, for men love at their own convenience, but fear at the convenience of another._ She is feared, and rightly so. But, she has committed the cardinal error of making herself hated. A tyrant can hold down her subjects, but he suspects that she cannot defeat a foreign invasion at the same time. Especially, when that invader comes, not as a conqueror, but as a liberator. Yara Greyjoy will claim the Northern crown, but will ensure that the Iron Islands and North remain separate kingdoms, and that the Northern lords will continue to enjoy their lands and privileges. As for the Smallfolk, they will hardly mourn the disappearance of the Queen's inquisitors.

He arrived in Pyke, the previous day. Now he meets the Queen, in her chambers.

"All is ready my lord. Over a hundred ships, and eight thousand of my men, along with yours. "

"We shall be outnumbered on land, still."

"We shall. But, the Wolf Queen's subjects are disaffected. The Mormonts and the lords of Stony Shore are seeking a change of Queen. I expect others will seize the opportunity, as well. Just think, for the first time in eight thousand years, a Stark will no longer rule the North."

"There is an end to all things. But, how will the traitor at Castle Black react? I have unfinished business with him."

"He and I have come to an understanding. I bear him a grudge as much as you do, but I despise his sister more. It would seem that he has no love for her, either. The Night's Watch will take no part in this struggle. And, he has given me invaluable information about the state of the North's defences. "

"I presume he has a price?"

"No retaliation against him, and I must promise to spare Princess Catelyn and send her to him. I can do as I please with his sister. You must forego your vengeance on him. The North would rally behind him, if he made a bid for the crown. Besides, he may have committed the murder, but it was the Wolf Queen who pushed him into the deed. "

"It goes against the grain, but he is no tyrant, at least. I promise that I will not seek vengeance on him."

"What news from our friend in Pentos?"

"He is old, but still committed to the cause. I have brought a wealth in gold and gemstones from him. And this." He handed Queen Yara a painting wrapped in canvass. When she unveiled it, it showed a portrait of a young girl, with a bird of prey on her arm. "Infanta with a Hawk" I believe it is called. He had it painted when she and her brother stayed at his manse. I believe it's the only portrait of her in existence."

"A rare gift. When I take Winterfell, I'll exhibit it in the Great Hall. I wouldn't want dear Sansa to miss that display."

"You won't kill her, then?"

"Gods no." Yara smiled nastily. "If there's one thing I've learned in this life, there are far worse things you can do to an enemy than killing her."


	2. Welcome Madam And the Gods's Speed

_I'm the first Ironborn, ever to be made welcome on Bear_ Island It's true. As her ship, the Black Wind, docks at the harbour at the end of the fjord, Lady Alysanne Mormont is waiting for her, with a couple of hundred of her people. As so often, there is a light snow, drifting down from the mountains that tower over them. When Yara walks down the gangplank, the crowd kneel before her. She takes Lady Alysanne by her hand, raises her to her feet, and kisses her on the lips. They retire to the longhouse where a feast will be held in her honour. Seated at the top table, she dines on crab and venison and badger, accompanied by copious drafts of ale and mead. It is no different to being entertained by a Lord of the Ironborn. The same food and drink, the same smoke-blackened hall, the same sagas being told by a skald; this one is very good indeed, as he recounts how generations ago, a monster threatened Bear Island, only to be slain by a Mormont, but the monster had a mother, more formidable, who sought vengeance, and the hero had to dive below the sea, to destroy her in her lair. She has heard exactly the same tale told about the Greyjoys, but he tells it beautifully. She removes a silver arm ring, and tosses it to the delighted skald. It is time for her to speak to the crowd.

"You are all used to seeing me as an enemy. If Ned Stark were still alive, you would be right to see me as an enemy. You would be right to fight for him. Ned Stark was my enemy and my father's enemy, but he was good, and honourable, and brave, as was his wife, Lady Catelyn. Any man (or woman) should want to fight for him. Next to a good friend, the best thing in life is to have a good enemy. But his daughter, Sansa, she is something else entirely. " There was a low rumble of agreement. "A Queen, who sells her own people into slavery. Who lives in splendour in her fairytale palace, while her people go hungry. Who has burned villages and castles to the ground. Who betrays the memory of her father and mother, by violating everything they believed in. You deserve better than that!" People were crying out in approval, drumming mugs of ale on the tabletops. "Let me assure you, that if I am your Queen, your welfare will be my priority. Never will you need to fear raids from the Iron Islands; the Iron Fleet will protect the North from its enemies. The North will always be ruled from Winterfell, never from Pyke. The kingdoms will remain separate. When I am away from Winterfell, then your own liege lady, Alysanne Mormont, will rule as viceroy, in my place. I am not a conqueror; I come to free you from a tyrant!" The crowd rose, applauding her, cheering her name, over and over. Grey Worm came over to congratulate her. "They are yours your Grace, now and always."

"I wish our old friend could be here to see it. "

Grey Worm smiled. "They worship her as a goddess, now in Naath, and in much of the East. If she is one, she is surely with us, now."

Lady Mormont rose from the table, and walked over to them. The three of them walked out of the entrance, into the cold dusk, to talk more privately.

"I can give you two hundred men for your campaign. Sadly, no more. Far too few for the honour you have done me."

"You were the first vassal to join me, Alysanne. Your loyalty deserves a rich reward."

"What now? Will you strike at Deepwood Motte.?"

"No the mountain clans are ready to move. They will place it under siege. I shall join my army on the Stony Shore. I'll leave a small squadron of longships here, to protect you in case of raids. Now tell me, which of her lords are loyal to her?"

"Above all, the Manderlys of White Harbour. She has taken care to cultivate them. Her daughter is betrothed to Lord Manderly's younger son? Do you intend to let her live?"

"I don't take revenge on children. The girl will be sent to Jon Snow and his sister at Castle Black. What she does with her life is up to her at that point. Any other lords?"

"The Karstarks and the Dustins, probably. But, she said it herself, many years ago, they are weathervanes. Most will back the winning side."

"Which we will be" comments Grey Worm. "That is not an idle boast. Our men fight for a cause. Hers fight for gain. I judge they have one battle in them. Defeat them, and her sellswords will have no wish to continue in a lost cause."

"Don't underrate her. She is a vile woman, but no one rules the North for fifteen years, without having some cunning. "

"She can hold her people down", replies Yara "But, I don't think she can fight an army at the same time."

"There's something you should know. Some of her enemies, she sells into slavery, as you know. Others, she sends to penal camps in the Wolfswood. I have never visited one of them but I hear they are …...not pleasant. It might be worth your while to bring chroniclers with you, who can make an account of such places. Let the world know what manner of woman rules the North."

"The world already knows what kind of woman rules the North, but your suggestion is a good one. I want to capture her alive, and put her on trial before the Northern lords, and representatives of the Smallfolk. "

"She wasn't always like this you know. She was quite different as a girl."

"She was married to a beast in human form, a man who tortured my brother for months, for sheer pleasure. She fed him to his own dogs, but he had the final victory. He made her into his successor. Well, not quite. She's no rapist, I'll give her that".

"I thought I'd be loyal to the Starks to my dying day. This is so sad."

"She's the one who betrayed her family, not you. She betrayed the Dragon Queen, too. Had she only been loyal, she would have lived out her days as Lady of Winterfell. "

"What fools we were to scorn her. She saved us from the Dead. What did Sansa do? Hoarded grain, which she sold for a handsome profit afterwards."

"What's done is done, Alysanne. Look to the future. You and I have the whole of the North to govern."

The three of them walk back to the longhouse in companionable silence.

Notes:

I envisage the Ironborn and Bear Islanders having as much in common as Danish Vikings and Northumbrian Angles. The tale is that of Beowulf, which was enjoyed across the North Se


	3. The Hour of the Wolf

_It is not my fault. It has never been my fault. I had no choice_. Sansa has spent her entire reign repeating those words to herself, but she has never quite succeeded in believing them. She lies awake at the Hour of the Wolf, sleep escaping her, as it does so often. Her daughter lies unconscious beside her, in her four-poster. How she envies her ability to sleep soundly. In the middle of the night, she can admit to herself that she has done terrible things. But none of it is her fault. Almost everyone she put her faith in betrayed her. Joffrey had been her fairytale Prince. It turned out he was a monster, who murdered her father while forcing her to watch, before spending months abusing her. Then, there was Margaery Tyrell. The Rose of Highgarden had first befriended her when she was friendless, and then had seduced her, one night when they had been sharing a flagon of wine. She was shocked at first, but Margaery had assured her that such loves were nothing unusual in the Reach, as in Dorne. She had promised Sansa she would love her forever. That was the night before she and her unspeakable grandmother poisoned Joffrey, and then framed her and Tyrion for the deed. Sansa still has nightmares about what Cersei would have done to her in revenge. _No doubt, dearest Margaery, you would have shed many a tear for me, after you watched me being tortured and burned like the Lace Serpent. Well, you ended up a pile of ash. About the only good thing Cersei did in her life. Do you both still torment each other in hell? Will I join you there, one day? The three of us, bound together in an eternity of hatred. _

Then, she had fallen into the clutches of Peter Baelish, who could barely keep his hands off her, before persuading her to marry Ramsay Bolton, the only man in the world worse than Joffrey. She shudders to remember the rapes, the whippings, the abuse, that Ramsay and his sadistic mistress, Myranda, inflicted on her. Myranda had even suggested mating her to the man's dogs, an idea that had delighted him. Thank the gods she had made her escape before that. She was few happy memories, but feeding the Bastard of Bolton to his dogs is one of them. She laughs, as she remembers the surprised look on his face, just before his hounds ripped it off.

Astonishingly, she had received kindness and support from Theon and Brienne, both sadly long dead. Only to escape to her wretched brother, later revealed to be her cousin. She had won the Battle of Winterfell, not him, when she led the Vale knights in the charge that routed the Boltons, but did she receive any credit for it? Of course not! The lords had all voted to make Jon their king just because he had a cock. And, then he had the nerve to slap her down, just because she suggested that the children of rebel lords should have their lands confiscated! And what had he done with his kingship? Surrendered it to an Eastern whore, the moment she spread her legs for him! Gods, the man was a fool! She feels no remorse for the plots she weaved against the Dragon Queen. The bitch would have destroyed her and her siblings. Even so, she had still raised a glass when the news arrived from Kings Landing that she had destroyed Cersei and the wretched population who had tried to rape her in a riot. Stupidly, she had felt some regret for Jon's exile, even apologised to him, only to be met with scorn and hate when she last visited him. She ought to have voted for his death, when she had the chance. Much worse, her own sister had turned against her. She doesn't enjoy torturing people and spying on them. Who would? But, a Queen has no choice in the matter. She doesn't enjoy making people work in penal colonies, or shipping them East, but how else is she supposed to deal with rebels and traitors? It's not as if she forced them to rebel against her. They didn't rebel against her father, after all, but he was a man. They think that a woman ruler is weak, and what can she do except to prove them wrong? A ruler has to make herself feared, or else she ceases to be a ruler. She made all these points to Arya, who had merely replied she had no intention of serving a mass murderer of innocents, and ridden for Castle Black the following morning. _If I could rule by love, I would do, but they won't let me _

She fears the outcome of this war, more than she admits. She has the numbers, but she knows of the reputation of the Ironborn and the Unsullied. And, she studies the reports prepared by her Inquisitors assiduously. She knows that the Smallfolk hate her, despite her best efforts. She knows that half the lords would turn on her in a minute, if she failed to keep them in fear of her. And her daughter. Oh gods, what would they do to Catelyn if she fell into the hands of her enemies! She has always been a student of history. She remembers what happened to Princess Elia's daughter Rhaenys, and poor Queen Jaehaera. The one hacked to pieces, and the other thrown from the Red Keep to die by inches on spikes in the moat. Catelyn is beautiful; no doubt she would be raped, before being murdered. They did it to poor Apicata, when her father, a Triarch of Volantis was overthrown; the law forbade the execution of a maid. So, they made sure she wasn't a maid, before strangling her. No, she has made up her mind. If this war is lost, she will take her daughter's life, and then her own. Jon and Arya might be happy to see her dead, but let them have Catelyn's death on their consciences.

No, she can't sleep. She slips out of her bed, being careful not to disturb her daughter. She puts on a rough gambeson and wool breeches, a pair of boots, and over them all, a thick fur coat. She takes a draft of Tyroshi pear brandy. She leaves her chambers, accompanied by a pair of bodyguards, and makes her way through the palace, being saluted by her guards along the way. She exits the building, and makes for the Godswood, eventually halting before the Heart Tree, the very one where she took an oath long ago, not to reveal Jon's parentage. And, there she prays for over an hour. Praying for her mother and father, and Robb, and her ancestors to aid her in her hour of need. Praying to the Seven to forgive her her sins and crimes, nothing worse than the sins and crimes that all rulers have to commit. At last, the first glimmerings of dawn appear. She turns back to the palace, reassured. She is righteous. The gods will favour her.

**Notes:**

1\. In the Show, Myranda "who smelt like dog" was the sadistic mistress of Ramsay Bolton. She hated Sansa, and looked forward to torturing her, once she had borne Ramsay a child.

2\. Rhaenys was the daughter of Elia Martell, and Jaehaera was the child queen of Aegon III. Both were brutally murdered.

3\. Lady Darklyn, "the Lace Serpent" had her tongue and private parts removed with red hot pincers, by Aerys II, before being burned alive. Cersei managed to silence a meeting of the Small Council by telling them how much she'd love to torture Sansa if she fell into her hands.

4\. The story of Apicata, daughter of Sejanus, is one of the grimmest parts of Tacitus.


	4. Garstang

What is this fellow's offence?" asks Inspector-General Norrey.

"Insubordination, ser, " replies the camp commander. The Inspector-General nods, and continues to ask questions about the condemned men. Plainly, they deserve to die, guilty as they are of such crimes as theft of food, shirking, and dumb insolence. There are seven of them, some terrified, some sullen, lined up in front of the scaffold. There is a thin drizzle in the dawn air, in keeping with the sombre nature of the proceedings. The Garstang penal camp is never a happy place at the best of times. The times could hardly be worse.

"This is a guard is he not?" Norrey asks of the prisoner standing at the end of the row. Even the other prisoners seem to shun him. He wears the remnants of his uniform. He stares at the ground, refusing to meet Norrey's gaze. "What is his offence?" The commander looks sheepish, and mutters "rape of a prisoner, ser". Norrey glares at the condemned man. "Look at me!" Reluctantly, the man stares upwards at him. "You are aware of the disciplinary code, are you not?"

"Yes, ser," answers the man sullenly.

"Then you are aware that any form of sexual activity between a guard and a prisoner is strictly forbidden?"

The man looks indignant, somehow. "No one cared in the past, ser, we all did it."

"What may or may not have occurred in the past is irrelevant. You're a disgrace to your uniform. " Norrey nods again to the commander, who instructs his guards to lead the men up onto the scaffold. Nooses are fastened around their necks. He turns to address the assembled crowd. All the prisoners have been led out to witness the executions. "You are here because you have committed serious offences against her Grace, Queen Sansa Stark, First of Her Name, and against your Motherland. You will work on behalf of your country, until you have redeemed yourselves in the eyes of the Queen's Grace. What you are about to witness here today, is not revenge, but justice. Take note, that justice is served even on guards who fail in their duties." He then turns back to the scaffold. Each man is pushed forward in turn, and slowly chokes, most of them pissing themselves as they expire. Norrey watches until the last of them stops twitching, and then instructs the commander to dismiss the prisoners. Then he turns to the commander, "there are matters which I need to discuss with you."

He trudges down the muddy main street of the camp, towards the commander's quarters. Norrey is an efficient man. He joined the Queen's Inquisition, when it was established twelve years ago. His zeal and efficiency guaranteed him a swift rise through its ranks. In his five years as Inspector General of the Penal Camps, he has managed to achieve a most impressive boost to productivity. The carrot and the stick is his preferred approach. Starving, freezing, prisoners are scarcely capable of working. Therefore he has improved their rations and living conditions; at the same time, he has tightened discipline. Floggings and executions are now routine for prisoners who fail to display absolute obedience to their masters. The occasional exemplary hanging of a guard is also good for discipline. When he took over, far too many of the guards were near-criminal scum, with a passion for torture and rape. He has weeded them out, largely replacing them with a committed body of men and women who are dedicated to serving their Queen. She is delighted with his efforts, and has granted him a lordship. Not that he requires lands or titles, trumpery things. It is enough for him to have the Queen's approval. He lives to serve.

The commander leads him into his sitting room. "Wine ser?" he enquires. "Thank you, no." The room is cold and cheerless. There is a weak fire in the grate, and the obligatory portrait of the Queen on the wall behind the commander. "Do you have skilled men and women among your prisoners. You are aware that war is imminent?" The man nods. "I need smiths, fletchers, bowyers, carters, for the army."

"There are dozens. We generally hire them out to local lords and other employers. We make a handsome profit. That is, Her Grace makes a handsome profit."

"Of course. Garstang is the very model of what a penal camp should be, even if you do find the occasional rotten apple in your barrel. I have noted your zeal, and your effectiveness. Rest assured that Her Grace is aware of it too." The man smiles with relief. "However, the needs of the army come first. I will need these people. Should they survive the coming battles, I shall of course return them to you. "

"Hopefully joined by the prisoners taken by the Queen's army.'

"Of course. I do expect our army to prevail. But, we must also consider the prospect of ...setbacks. I have orders for you, in case our soldiers are obliged to retreat. Orders, which you may find difficult to carry out. But, know that you will be carrying out the Queen's express will, in doing so. In the event of a military defeat, it is likely that enemy forces will reach this camp. In that case, you must ...dispose of the remaining prisoners, and destroy their remains. I would recommend the use of quicklime. They are dangerous and desperate criminals, who on no account, must be allowed to swell the ranks of the Queen's enemies. Am I clear?"

"As crystal, ser. You can rest assured there are no firmer hands than mine."

"Good. Select the prisoners I require, and my men will convey them to the army. I believe that concludes our business together."

Norrey rides out of the gates of the camp. There are other camps that he must visit, and similar orders to be given.


	5. The Last of the Starks

The breakfasts at Castle Black are one of the few good things that remain to Jon Snow in this life. Eating the fried bread and kidneys, he thinks, for the thousandth time, it would have been a mercy had he been sentenced to execution, at Kings Landing. _But the punishment of the kinslayer is not death. It is life. Life, despised by others. Life, despising oneself._ "Ask me again in ten years", Tyrion had suggested, when he asked him if they had done the right thing by killing Daenerys. Ten years? it had taken him far less time than that to realise what a disastrous error he had made. His agents had kept him informed of events at Kings Landing. Tyrion, thrilled at the chance to exercise supreme political power, had proven completely out of his depth, in the face of the Ironborn and Dornish rebellions. He had tried appeasement, and been laughed at. He had sent out military expeditions that were destroyed. And, then, a decade ago, he had been assassinated. Bran had shown himself to be utterly ineffectual as king, living in the past, in a world of his own. He appointed a succession of Hands, none of whom had proved up to the task. Bronn Stokeworth, Master of Coin, had diverted funds intended for the army into his own pockets, a significant factor in their military failures. No one had mourned him when he died suddenly. Nor, had they wept for Sam Tarly, for that matter. His oldest friend, who had never even bothered to write to him, once he had been sent into exile, at Castle Black. Like everyone else, Sam had seen the Seven Kingdoms as his private treasure trove. Lord Commander Brienne, one of the few Small Councillors to possess integrity, had been killed in battle with the Dornish.

But, if there was chaos in the South, the North was another matter altogether. His dear sister and cousin had revealed a side he never knew existed (although he appreciates now that he ought to have done). Inevitably, the Northern lords had proved fractious and disloyal. A woman ruler was considered to be a pushover. She had responded by bringing fire and sword to them and their Smallfolk, in the form of a powerful army of foreign sellswords, and masterless men, devoid of any notion of pity, honour, or decency. On one of her visits to Castle Black, long ago, before their relationship broke down completely, she boasted that she'd studied Tywin Lannister's military campaigns in detail, and had learned some valuable lessons. Here, at least, she was telling the truth. And increasingly, she had come to rule the North through terror, with considerable skill, it must be said. Year on year, the taxes rose to fund the army, and the Queen's glittering Court. But, the rebellions had petered out, and the population had been cowed. Her master-stroke had been to sell the tenants of rebel lords into slavery (not that she ever called it that). That way, she made enough money to keep her army well paid, while getting rid of potential enemies. The price was, of course, that she had made herself hated. Speech is still free among the men of the Nights Watch. And, they don't hold back from expressing their views on Queen Sansa the Wise! Many of them make no secret of the fact that they would welcome the sight of her head being spiked above Winterfell's gate by Yara Greyjoy _I would welcome it too_ . Does he mean that? Is this what the Stark family has sunk to at the end? He is aware that Sansa does not care that she has made herself hated.

He rises from his table, walks out, and exits the Refectory, stepping out into the light snow. Arya is waiting for him, ready to spar. She aims two cuts at his head with her rapier, right and left, lighting fast, which he only just manages to avoid. He retaliates with a savage swing that would disembowel her if it caught her, only for her to dodge it in turn. They're both very good, and a small crowd gathers to watch. They are keenly matched, Arya's skill and grace, pitted against his strength and speed. On this occasion, he wins, tripping her legs from under her, and putting her on her back. Just as often, he is the one landing on his back. The crowd applauds as he helps her to his feet. They retire to his chambers. Arya's presence at Castle Black is one of the few things that has kept him sane, in recent years. After returning from her voyages West, she had flatly refused Sansa's offer to work as her chief torturer, and taken refuge with him. As indeed have many Northerners. In truth, there is little purpose to the Night's Watch any more, but its ranks have swelled with Northern volunteers, unable to stomach his sister's tyranny. The lands of The Gift have also been repopulated with Northern refugees, enabling farms and villages to be rebuilt. He pours ale for them both, as they relax.

"The invasion is underway, now. Yara Greyjoy and her army have reached the Stony Shore. I expect they'll strike for Torrhen's Square."

"Do you expect her to honour her bargain with you, Jon? If she wins, why wouldn't she and Grey Worm come North to settle accounts with us."

"That's a risk. But, they'd have to fight their way through the Gift, and we'd have the backing of the Free Folk. And, she'd turn the North against her. No, I don't think she's that foolish."

"If they win, will they kill Sansa? "

"Do you think I care? Kill her, imprison her, it's all one to me. " Arya looks troubled.

"In spite of everything, Jon, she is still our sister."

"Do you think she acted like a sister towards me, Arya?" She shakes her head. "And, do you think it would have been safe for you to remain at Winterfell, after turning her down? Or would she have seen you as a traitor?"

"I see your point. Gods. Imagine what mother and father and Robb are thinking now, if they can see us! The family that ruined the Seven Kingdoms, and ended up more despised than the Boltons!"

"I've spent the past fifteen years, trying not to think about that. But, I suppose Lady Catelyn would just say I lived down to all her worst expectations."

Arya rises from her chair, and comes over to hug him. "You never did. Sansa set you up. And, Daenerys did kill a city."

"Not her alone. Our men were out for revenge. For Father, Robb, and Lady Catelyn; for the men murdered by the Freys; for all their losses, fighting the Lannisters; for having to fight the Dead, without the help they'd been promised. They weren't going to accept a surrender. I should have realised that. Let's face it, the North rejoiced when they heard what was done at Kings Landing. "

"We can't dwell in the past. "

"No. We need to talk about Catelyn. The Pirate Queen has assured me, she'll be spared and sent to us. But, she may still be caught up in the fighting, or worse. Would our sweet sister even let her go?"

"I need to get her out of Winterfell, don't I? I'll need to disguise myself, and take some of your men, in case of pursuit. Maybe a dozen, and we'll need remounts and supplies."

"Take all you need, only bring her home. If we can see her safe, at least we'll have salvaged something from the fiasco that Sansa and Bran have wrought between them."

Two days later, Arya rides out from Castle Black, with a dozen of his men. There is nothing more that Jon can do now, expect pray to the Old Gods and the New, that her mission will succeed.

**Notes:**

The Gift is the area of land which supports the Nights Watch. Once well-populated, it's population had fallen sharply by the start of the fourth century AC. The show presupposed an absurdly small population for the entire North, of less than a million. The North would just not be able to field the size of army it does with a population of that size. If one were to take early medieval Scandinavia as a comparison, the population of the North should be more like 3 to 4 million. Numbers have probably declined somewhat, under Sansa's benevolent rule


	6. The Education of a Princess

"Begin, your Highness", Maester Wolkan commands Princess Catelyn, as they sit together in his study. She delivers her translation of an Old Valyrian poem:

_"The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ_

_Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit_

_Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,_

_Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it. _

_For let Philosopher and Doctor preach_

_Of what they will, and what they will not - each_

_Is but one Link in an eternal Chain_

_That none can slip, nor break, nor over-reach. _

_And that inverted Bowl we call The Sky,_

_Whereunder crawling coop't we live and die,_

_Lift not thy hands to it for help - for It_

_Rolls impotently on as Thou or I." _

"Excellent" he remarks. "Now, tell me what it means".

"It means that you can't fight or reverse fate, what's done is done", the Princess replies. "Our destiny is fixed, and can't be altered".

"Indeed, and do you believe that?"

"Yes, and no. I think we do have free will, we can decide our destiny, up to a point. But, the gods do intervene in our lives. For example, the gods chose my mother to rule the North as their Queen. She is their anointed one, Chrestus ,as the Valyrians would have said. She rules by Divine Right. Therefore, those who rebel against her are not just traitors, but enemies of the gods." Wolkan briefly catches the eye of Jeyne Poole, who sits in a corner of the room. He sees her briefly shake her head. No, Jeyne wouldn't be teaching Catelyn such nonsense. It would only come directly from the Queen, or one of her sycophants. Sansa is a well-read woman. The Divine Right of Kings is just the sort of doctrine she would have picked up in some work of history or philosophy that would appeal to her. It would go a long way to explaining why she acts as she does; and she has indeed, expressed the view that her will is the will of the gods. Sansa has largely ceased to take advice from him, in relation to political or military matters. That's a relief. He is under no illusions about the monstrous regime of terror which she operates, and he has no desire to be complicit in it. He focuses his attention on the education of the young Princess, desperately hoping that he can mould her into a different person to her mother. The girl is precociously intelligent, just as her mother is. But, her mother puts her intelligence to appalling uses.

"Why do people rebel against my mother?" she suddenly asks him. "How can they do something so evil?"

"All rulers have enemies, your Highness, " replies Lady Poole, thankfully sparing Wolkan the need to lie. "You must know that from your history. Your grandfather, grandmother, and uncle were all treacherously murdered by people who hated them."

"But, mother is so kind, and gracious, and beautiful. She loves her subjects, and gave them independence, for the first time in three hundred years. Why can't they love her back?"

"Most of them do love her, " Jeyne lies smoothly, "only a handful defy her." How can I make her not be her mother, when we all have to lie to her? It would be more than my life is worth to enlighten her, or Jeyne's for that matter" There is a rap on the door of the study.

"Come in" he calls out. Ser Aumary Royce, the Master of Arms comes into the room. He is a native of the Vale, and a very distant relative of the Starks. "Your Highness, it is time for you to fence", he says. The girl rises. She really is striking, with her father's jet black hair, and her mother's blue eyes. Despite everything, she is sweet and good-natured. Her mother has learned how to use a rapier and dagger, fearing assault, and insists that the Princess learns, as well. Catelyn thanks Maester Wolkan for his lesson, and leaves with Ser Aumary.

"What can we do, my Lady?" sighs Wolkan. "Whether we win this war or not, I fear for the Princess. The gods know what the Queen's enemies would do to her. But, if the Queen wins, would you really want Catelyn to turn into a replica of her mother?"

"Shush, walls can have ears. Come closer, I must talk to you quietly" She whispers softly, in his ear. "The Queen is afraid. More afraid than she will let on, before her advisors. She still speaks frankly to me, in a way that she does to no one else. She has given terrible orders, if her army is defeated. Her prisoners are to be executed. Every one of them". Wolkan exhales in horror. "At the last, she will take her own life if she has to, rather than fall into the hands of her enemies. I suspect worse" and now she lowered her voice still further. "If she faces ruin, I fear, I very much fear, she will murder Catelyn, before killing herself."

"Then I think our duty is plain," he whispers back. "We must be ready to get the girl to safety." Again he whispers "I know what Ramsay Bolton did to the Queen, when she was his wife. I won't nauseate you with the details. She's probably told you anyway. But, even so, she wasn't the person then, that she is now. Even after the horrors of Kings Landing".

"She lives in fear. She feared that her brother and the Dragon Queen planned to destroy her. She drove a wedge between them instead. She learned a lesson at that point. Cunning, ruthlessness, and a complete lack of pity can take you a very long way. And, let's face it. Nobody rules the North for fifteen years, without a certain level of competence. But, she may have met her match now. We don't just want to keep the Princess safe. You and I might be heading for the scaffold if the Queen is defeated. She has made thousands of enemies across the North. They will be in no mood for mercy towards any of us. "

Far away, Norrey rides away from the last of the penal camps, The Haggs. He has left each camp commander in no doubt as to their orders. Now, he rides to war. He will supervise the prisoners who are to labour for the army. Crushing the Queen's enemies is not just his duty. It is a holy task. To serve her Grace is to serve the gods.

**Notes:**

The poem is verses 51 to 53 of the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayam, as translated by Edward Fitzgerald


	7. Sisters Reunited

Arya slurps her way through her bowl of brown. She has adopted the face of a carpenter, long dead, and wears the rough wool clothes of his trade. The rebuilding of Winterfell has still not been completed, and there is work for masons, carpenters, brick layers and others of their ilk, in Wintertown. She has taken a cheap room in one of the rougher parts of the town. The inn's Common room is crowded with artisans, and lively with conversation. Tomorrow, she will seek work with the overseers, and proceed with her plans from there. Her men are stationed at a village ten miles away, ready to fight off anyone who might pursue them. She will rescue Catelyn on her own. The arrival of a dozen men at the Palace would inevitably rouse suspicions. The journey itself was uneventful, a fortnight's riding in the drizzle. She finishes the broth, and drains her mug of ale, before bidding the innkeep goodnight, and retiring to her room. She laughs to herself as she imagines her sister staying in such a place. There is no bed, simply a straw mattress, infested with insects. The room itself is cold and cheerless, smelling of boiled cabbage and unwashed bodies. Still, it's certainly not the worst place she's stayed in, during her travels, not by a long way. She wraps a rough wool cloak about her, and lies down to sleep. She thinks more on what she must do. Although it is some years since she left Winterfell, she thinks it should not be hard to find her way round the Palace. She remembers the secret passages in the walls and crypts well enough, and it should be straightforward enough for her to evade the guards. No, the real problem will be persuading Catelyn to leave. No doubt Sansa will have poisoned her daughter's mind against her, accusing her of treason. She racks her brains, trying to think of a way through this problem, and drifts off to sleep, without coming up with a solution.

She wakes with a start. A man has entered the room stealthily, and she draws her dagger under her cloak, taking great care to let him think she remains asleep. As he looms over her, she springs upward, slitting his throat with ease, and leaving him choking in his blood, before running to the door. Her sister's agent, or a common thief. As she darts through the door, she cannons into a second thug, before slashing him across the face. But, even as he falls to the ground screaming, her luck runs out. She is tripped, and a third man kneels on her back, holding a dagger to her neck. "One move, and you're dead" he tells her. Another trusses her arms behind her back, before she is pulled to her feet. She is hooded, and then frog-marched down the corridor, and through the Common room. Nobody speaks. She realises that the Queen's Inquisition have captured her. No one will intervene. She can also guess where she will be taken. "Move bitch", she hears her captor order, and she walks on. She realises they have reached the Palace, when she hears the man give a password to a guard, who gives the countersign, in response. They continue walking, before they descend several flights of steps. The atmosphere grows steadily colder and damper. She senses that they have entered a dank room, smelling of human waste, and worse things. "Sit" the man commands. A chair is placed beneath her. She feels a chain being wrapped around her, before hearing the key turn in its padlock. And then, she hears her sister speak.

"Show her the instruments". Her hood is removed, and she blinks in the torchlight. Her sister stands before her, staring down grimly, surrounded by a half a dozen thugs. She wears a jerkin, and rough wool trousers, with a butcher's leather apron. Not a good sign. Set out on a table before her, is an impressive array of blades, pliers, needles, and other instruments whose purpose is horribly obscure. "I suppose you want to know how you came to be here. My Inquisition has a long reach. They have agents among the Nights Watch. That's all you need to know. I suppose that treacherous bastard put you up to this. Mother was certainly right about him!"

"He's our brother, Sansa."

"He's no brother to me. He hates me."

"And he has reason to." She sees a flicker of annoyance on Sansa's face. Then,

"Do you fuck him! Is that why you went to join him." It's unwise, but Arya can't help herself; she spits in Sansa's face. She sees her go white with fury, and reach for one of the blades. She braces herself for what is about to happen, but Sansa masters herself.

"I'd prefer not to have your blood on my hands, Arya. What I do want is a full confession. I want to know every detail of the plot, and I want to know whether Jon is in league with Yara Greyjoy. Give me every detail, and I'll spare you."

"And if I don't?"

"Then, we'll strip you and start cutting."

"I don't believe you'd do that, Sansa, despite everything. You're not that hard, however much you may pretend." For the first time, she sees a shadow of doubt in her sister's face. She continues, speaking softly "Sansa, despite everything, I've always loved you. I was so proud of you, during the fight against the Dead. I was so pleased for you, the day you were crowned. What went wrong?"

"Get out, " Sansa tells the thugs. After they leave she replies. "You ask what went wrong. The lords of the North thought I was weak. One after another, they rose against me. They left me no choice but to put them down. And, did my own family aid me? No. You were off on your adventures, and Jon blamed me for the death of his whore. And when you returned, you just turned your back on me. Your skills would have been invaluable to me, yet you chose to insult me instead. You say you love me. What love did you show me then?"

"Sansa, do you have any idea what the world thinks of us? Our family is hated by thousands, because of you. And Bran. The Stark name stinks across two continents. It never had to be like that, and still doesn't have to be like that. You can still seek exile with your fortune intact."

"Exile?" She hears the hate in her sister's voice, pride and anger conquering her now. "You think I'll run before my enemies, give up my throne, and rob my daughter of her birthright. You think I'd betray the memory of Father, and Mother, and Robb by fleeing like a coward?"

"You've already betrayed their memory, Sansa."

She sees the cold fury in her sister's eyes, before she responds. "I'll give you this one evening Arya, to think over what you're going to do. We'll come back in the morning. Choose wisely." She removes her leather apron, and stalks out of the room.

For several hours, sleep evades Sansa. She thought it would be easy to threaten the sister who had betrayed her. Indeed, once she was informed of the plot by her agents, she had looked forward to meeting her, proving to her that she would always be one step ahead of her. But, it isn't easy. She has watched prisoners being tortured, even participated in the torture on occasions, but her own sister! In her mind's eye, she pictures Arya naked and whimpering, her body cut with razors, and burned with hot irons, sitting in a pool of her own blood and piss. Or Arya screaming, as her back is whipped raw by her thugs. Oh gods, can't Arya see sense! She won't hurt her, if only she makes a full confession. She'll keep her under guard of course, but not in a dungeon. Her concern for Arya is not matched by any similar concern for the bastard at Castle Black. His death is long overdue. She'll instruct her agents to assassinate him. She ought to have done it years ago, but a foolish pity stayed her hand. He is a cousin, so surely the kinslayer curse won't fall on her. Cousins fight each other. They aren't close family. But a sister! She knows she won't sleep tonight. She gets up and dresses in her rough clothes again. She nods to a group of guards, and they accompany her as she descends to Arya's cell. The turnkey unlocks the door. "Wait outside" she instructs them. The dungeon is now pitch black, the torches having gone out. But, she carries a torch of her own, holding it aloft so she can look upon Arya. She is slumped in her chains, obviously unconscious. It is so strange to look upon the face of someone she never met, while still knowing that her sister sits there. She feels something she has not felt in a very long while; pity. She puts the torch in a sconce. Then, gently, she nudges Arya's shoulder, rousing her.

"You're starting early, then, Sansa" she remarks. "I thought you'd at least give me a night's sleep."

"I've come to try and make you see sense Arya. I promise, you won't be ill-treated. You'll have to stay here for the duration of the war, but there are plenty of spare chambers in the Palace. It will be like old times. We can dine and hunt together. All you have to do is tell me what I need to know. "

"I'm not giving you any information you don't have. If I'm honest Sansa, I want you to lose this war. "

"What you mean is, you want me dead!" she replies, feeling a wave of fury. "I'm trying to save your life, and that's your response!"

"You're the one who's putting my life in danger, Sansa. And, no, I don't want you dead. I want you and Catelyn to escape, and live out your days in comfortable obscurity."

"I don't think that's a realistic option, do you? Even if I were offered asylum in a foreign country, I've made far too many enemies to expect to survive. I'd spend the rest of my short life looking over my shoulder for the assassin's blade; I'd fear that every bite I took was poisoned. No, I stand or fall at Winterfell."

"What about Catelyn? You could send her out of danger. Let me take her to Castle Black."

"Never! She is a Crown Princess. She stays here with me."

"So what now? One thing I learned in the House of Black and White was how to block pain. I won't talk, but I can't prevent you from cutting me to pieces, if that's what you want. Is that really what you intend to do? Can you really live with being a kinslayer. A woman who brutally murdered her own sister?"

Sansa reflects for several minutes. "No, I can't" she replies, finally admitting defeat. "You won." She produces a key to the padlock, and unlocks it. Then, she unwinds Arya's chains, although her hands remain bound. "Swear by the old gods and the new, that you won't harm me if I cut your bonds. "

"I shouldn't have to. But, yes, Sansa, I swear by the old gods and the new that I won't harm you." Sansa picks up one of blades, walks behind the chair, and then she cuts Arya's bonds. Arya flexes her fingers, feeling a wave of tingling pain as the blood flows back into them. "So, what happens now, Sansa?"

"I suppose I can't persuade you to assassinate Yara Greyjoy?" Arya shakes her head.

"Then, you'll have to stay here for the time being. Remove your face. I want to look at my sister, once again. " Arya peels off her face. Sansa walks over and embraces her, crying now. For a time they hold each other, before Sansa recovers. "Come in" she commands, and her guards and the gaoler enter. "Take the Lady Arya to the guest chambers in Lord Creggan's tower. See to it that the is gently treated, but she is to be kept under guard at all times."

"We'll talk further, Arya. Now, I have a war to plan." She leaves the cell, feeling a wave of relief. At least she can get to sleep.

**Notes:**

I fear there won't be a redemption arc for Sansa, but she's not a complete monster. Not cutting your sister into pieces is a low hurdle to jump


	8. Torrhens Square

Ser Raymond Hightower, is greeted by Lord Tallhart, as he rides through the gates of Torrhens Square, at the head of the Royal Guard. Thousands of his men are setting up camp outside the walls of this mighty stronghold, as they await the rest of the army. They are halfway to the Stony Shore, from Winterfell.

"You will dine with me tonight, your Highness?"

"Of course, my lord, but first a bath." As he relaxes in the hot tub, he reflects on his career. From a second cousin of Lord Hightower, to Prince Consort of the North, and commander of its armies. He may be dead in a fortnight, but even so, it has been quite a life. Even if his marriage was not what he wanted it to be. Still, Queen Sansa had never deceived him, quite the reverse in fact. Owning nothing but his sword, horse, and armour, he had taken service, first with Yohn Royce, and then, after distinguishing himself in the War for the Dawn, with Queen Sansa. At the time, he thought she was quite simply the most beautiful woman he had ever met, with her main of flaming red hair, piercing blue eyes, and gorgeous figure. In fact, he could barely keep his eyes off her body , the first time he saw her fence, in tight jerkin, leggings and boots. He wondered if she'd send him to Skagos, if she knew he was staring at her arse. It turned out, she did know. He was summoned to her study.

"I see the way you look at me" she began without preamble. He begun to stammer an apology.

"I need a consort, who can provide me with an heir. You are comely, and you have proved your valour. If I were to marry a Northern lord, they would resent the fact that I had elevated one of their number above the rest. Comparitively speaking, you are a nobody. They might mutter about you, but they could not complain of favouritism. I would take you as my husband, if you wish." His jaw dropped.

"You do me far too much honour, your Grace."

"Marrying me is not an honour. I need an heir, that is all. There are things you should know, before making your decision, but first, you must swear by the old gods and the new, that you will never divulge what I am about to tell you."

"Of course, your Grace. I swear it by the old gods and the new"

"You know that I am no maid. I expect you know something of my last husband, and of how he met his end." He nodded. The Beast of Bolton was already a figure of legendary evil. And, everyone knew how Sansa had disposed of him. "The man was a wild animal in human form. Before marrying me, you need to know what he did to me." She proceeded to describe in clinical detail the acts which Lord Bolton had carried out, the acts which he had forced Sansa to perform, and the violence which she had been subjected to, as Ser Raymond listened with mounting horror. "Many men would view me as a whore, unclean, after hearing this. Perhaps you do as well. I must also point out that my body retains unsightly scars, which will never fade entirely. I mention these things, so that you cannot claim that I ever deceived you, in the future. I would sooner never lie with a man again, but I must produce an heir. Once I have done so, any physical relationship between us will end. You may take your pleasure as you wish; fidelity is not expected in a husband. You may be certain that I shall never be unfaithful to you. I will rule, and will tolerate no interference in my government, but I shall appoint you to high military command, and invest you with lands and holdfasts. You will have the title of Prince Consort." They had married a fortnight later, in a private ceremony in the Godswood. He had hoped that the marriage might have developed into something more conventional, but Sansa had been as good as her word, although she never ceased to treat him with respect on public occasions.

So, now he dines with Lord Tallhart, whose retinue would be joining the army, on the march to Stony Shore. Much to his distaste, he is joined by Inspector-General Norrey, a man who has always put him on edge. A bright-eyed fanatic, he positively revels in bringing death and destruction to his wife's enemies. It is a matter of very great relief to him that his wife has shut him out completely from that side of her government, leaving him free to concentrate on the army. For a time, they discuss the progress of the war, before Norrey comments:

"I have more than fourteen hundred skilled men, marching to join us. They have been removed from the penal camps, and possess invaluable skills."

"If they serve well, will you release them?" asks Ser Raymond.

Norrey takes a mouthful of the venison pie, and sips at his wine. He frowns. "Certainly not. They will complete their sentences. Serving their Queen and their Motherland, in time of danger, is the very least we can expect of them. "

Ser Raymond has drunk far too much wine. Almost without thinking he blurts out "How do you live with being a torturer? Do you just pin the responsibility on the people who work for you, even though you're the one giving the orders." Lord Tallhart chokes on his wine, looking terrified. He turns to Norrey, apologetically, "My lord, I think his Highness has had too much wine. Perhaps, we should retire to our chambers for the night."

Norrey holds up his hand, looking impassive as always. "His Highness's question is a fair one. How indeed, do I live with it? The Queen's Grace has enemies. A loyal subject works to crush those enemies. Sometimes a loyal subject must resort to methods which he would not, in an ideal world, wish to resort to. When I took over as Inspector General, five years ago, the penal camps were a shambles. The guards were indistinguishable from criminals, the prisoners were routinely raped, and they were starved to death. Since I have taken over, death rates have plummeted among the prisoners, and their productivity has soared, to the benefit of the nation. Prisoners are indeed executed, flogged, and tortured, but only when they violate a set of rules which is outlined very clearly to them the moment they arrive. You talk of "responsibility". You are the commander in chief of an army whose ability to fight depends upon the labours of those very prisoners. You are Prince Consort, one of the highest men in a State which both punishes these prisoners, and profits from their work. Which one of us is truly evading responsibility for his actions? I can assure you that my conscience has never been clearer." Norrey rises and bows to both men, "Your Highness, my Lord, I bid you good night."

"What were you thinking?" demands a still-frightened Tallhart. "Don't you know who he is?"

"Of course I know who he is. I try to avoid him when possible."

"Then you must know that he is the apple of your wife's eye. Mark my words, he'll be President of the Inquisition, sooner or later. "

"And, must you or I bow to those jackals?"

"You know the answer to that question, as well as I do. Make no mistake, they rule this country, under Her Grace, of course. It is time for me to retire, and you too? My men are ready to march with yours in two days's time."

Ser Raymond ponders Norrey's words in his chambers. The man is right of course. He has evaded responsibility for years, closing his mind to the nature of the regime he serves. But, the die is cast. He might wish things had been different, but there is a war to win. If he loses, he'll be strung up alongside his wife and daughter, and every other high official.


	9. An Incident at Fenny Bridges

Yara sees the smoke in the distance, and knows she is too late, even as she rides hard with Qarl the Maid and two score outriders. She had been warned the night before, by one of the local gentry, a Flint, that the village was in danger. He and his people had been ordered to retreat and destroy their homes and property, before the advance of her army. To her surprise, most of the population had obeyed, but the man had explained to her over dinner:

"Even so far from Winterfell, men fear the Queen's Inquisition. And, her army marches from Torrhens Square, more than twenty thousand strong." In truth, she had expected more gentry and smallfolk to switch sides, but away from Stony Shore, few have done. They fear Sansa too much. The inhabitants of Fenny Bridges, the village she is riding for, are among those who have defied the Queen. She fears they are paying the price.

They are now nearly a hundred miles away from the shore, marching towards the Northern host which approaches from Torrhens Square. She has appointed Grey Worm commander in chief of the combined army. Her own knowledge of war is largely confined to fighting at sea. Some of her men had complained that she had given up her own command, but it was only sensible to make use of one of the world's foremost commanders on land. She rides with the light cavalry, usually ten to fifteen miles ahead of the main army. Increasingly, she has been skirmishing with the enemy scouts, neither side winning a decisive advantage. Grey Worm had suggested she remain with the rest of the army, rather than risk herself, but she loves fighting too much; it is a weakness that all the Greyjoys share. She smiles at Qarl, the father of her two sons, whom she hastily married, prior to the invasion. She had legitimised their children already, which would satisfy the Iron Islanders. But, she wants there to be no doubt about the Northern succession, after she has won the throne. The Greenlanders after all have silly prejudices against bastards. If she falls, the war will continue in their name.

The commander of the cavalry squadron, Sigurd Harlaw, calls a halt, half a mile from the village. A couple of his men dismount, approaching the village stealthily on foot through the woods which surround it. A few minutes later they return, and one of them reports. "As we thought, they're firing the village. About two dozen riders. And, they're having fun at the same time". Yara grimaces. Although no stranger to bloodshed, she has never killed or maimed for sport. Indeed, both she and Grey Worm have been adamant that the Northern inhabitants must not be molested in any way; she will give her future subjects no grounds to hate her. She has had no option but to seize livestock and crops along the way, where available, but she has paid the inhabitants with coin provided by Magister Illyrio. Sansa's men, on the other hand, have no qualms about punishing ruthlessly any who disobey her orders. Grudgingly, she admits the sense behind her rival's hiring so many mercenaries and masterless men; they have no qualms about molesting the locals. Still, they have the chance to bring a measures of justice today.

They ride hard for the village, sweeping in from both ends of the main street. It is more of a rout than fight. A handful of riders put up resistance, including one brute she recognises, Dagon Codd, exiled from Pyke for theft. From his horse, he aims a deadly cut at her head, which she only avoids by leaning as far back as she can in her stirrups. She spurs forward, aiming a cut with her axe, as the man's horse collapses backwards from her. Codd cries out, tumbling from his saddle and dropping his sword, only for the man who hangstrung his horse to put a sword to his neck. He looks enquiringly at Yara "Keep him for questioning," she orders. Another man trusses Codd's hands behind his back. It turns out he is the only survivor. The rest are dead or fled. She dismounts and surveys the village, the surviving inhabitants crowding round to thank her. They take her to show her the raiders' work. Above a midden, a makeshift gallows has been erected. Three men and two girls hang from it. She judges the youngest to be no older than ten. Half the village has been burned. The villagers tell of her of rapes, and of men and women being murdered where they stood. About a score were killed, all told. She returns to Codd, now sitting up in his bonds:

"Were you the leader of this merry band?"

"Fuck you!" is the only response. Qarl walks over, and knees the man, hard in the face, breaking his nose, and causing him to fall backwards in the mud. He sets him up again.

"I'm going to ask you a few questions, Codd" says Yara mildly, pulling out her dirk from his sheath. "Every time you give me the wrong answer, I'm going to cut you. First an ear, then a finger, then your nose, then your cock, do you understand? Within half an hour, you'll be a pile of carved meat." The brute stares at her sullenly, but nods.

"Good. Were you in charge here?" The man nods.

"Are you part of a larger band?"

"About a hundred. We've been sent out to punish those who disobey the Queen."

"And how far is the main army?"

"How the fuck should I know?"

She strikes swiftly, taking his left ear with her dirk. The man screams. "Maybe thirty miles from here" he hisses.

"Good. That's all I need to know. " Codd sees the expressions on the faces of his captors, and struggles in his bonds. "Give me a sword at least, and let me die like a man. Or are you too coward to fight me?"

"Too coward to fight you, Codd" says Qarl. "You, who murder villagers for the sport of it"? He draws his sword, intending to make an end of the man.

"Easy now, Qarl" says Yara, putting a hand on his sword arm. "You're not the kind of man who'd kill a defenceless prisoner"

She picks up her axe, and drives it hard between Codd's eyes, splitting his skull in two. "For that sort thing, you need a callous bitch like me!"

**Notes:**

It's never been that unusual for monarchs and princes to put a professional soldier in charge of their army, and accept their commands, while still taking part in the fighting


	10. The Eve of Slaughter

"They used to say you could see all the beauty of the world, in the way that a hanged man wriggled" comments Lord Tallhart, as they watch a handful of prisoners, dangling from ropes, tied to tree branches.

"Who said that?" replies Ser Raymond.

"The Boltons."

"I thought they preferred flaying. Not that there are any Boltons any more. My wife saw to that."

"Is it true that her Grace fed the Bastard to his dogs?"

"Absolutely. She's not someone to cross." He looks away from the hanging men to the bodies on the ground. More of a skirmish than a battle, but one that still went in his favour. The vanguards of both armies clashed, before Grey Worm withdrew his men.

Norrey rides up, looking flushed. "You did it, your Highness! You broke the Unsullied!" he calls excitedly.

"We didn't break them, my lord, we overwhelmed a couple of hundred of them" replies Ser Raymond. "Every one of them died facing us, and our van outnumbered them three to one. Even then, we lost as many men as they did".

"But we have the larger army. We can cope with those losses."

"We have an advantage in numbers, but this war is far from over".

"I shall arrange for news of your Highness' victory to be relayed to Her Grace immediately, by raven."

"I thank you my lord". Norrey rides away.

"The problem with fanatics is that they see what they want to see" he comments to Cerwyn. "We have the advantage in numbers, but only a fool would underrate Unsullied or Ironborn."

"I've heard there are exiles among them. They may not match the others in quality, but they'll fight viciously, I'm sure."

"At the risk of talking sedition, I think that's one decision of my wife's that has come back to haunt us." He sees the surprise on Tallhart's face, before continuing "You and I may be dead in a few days' time; I think we can be honest with each other, about the nature of the regime we serve. If we return victorious, I'm going to insist on very big changes in government. Frankly, my wife is hated more than the Mad King ever was. This has to end. Do I have your backing?"

"Of course, your Highness. If we are victorious".

A few miles to the West, Grey Worm seethes as the remnants of the vanguard return. Their commander, Ser Tristifer Botley pushed too far ahead of the rest of the army, and got a bloody nose. Two hundred dead Unsullied, and as many casualties among the Ironborn are hard to forgive, but this can be turned to advantage. He turns to Yara and Qarl, "Your Grace, my lord, I would retreat a short distance. " She looks troubled.

"We depend on momentum. No one will turn against Sansa if they think she will win. But, her support will vanish if she's losing".

"I'm not suggesting running away. We match the enemy's numbers in infantry, I believe, but he has a big advantage in cavalry. I take the trouble to study the world's principal commanders. I never know when I might be fighting either against, or alongside, them. Ser Raymond is no fool, sadly. But, he will be confident, and he will follow us. I shall offer him battle on a field of my choosing, where his cavalry cannot outflank us. I have a site in mind. Even if he is cautious, his men will be eager for the fight. None of his lords will wish to be seen as coward. We can turn this to our advantage". He then outlines his plans to Yara, who gives her approval. "What do you want me to do?"

"You know what I want you to do, keep out of danger. But, you won't do that, will you?"

"You know I can't. It's not just I enjoy a fight, my men will only respect a leader who fights. But don't worry, I won't interfere with your orders. "

"Then take command of a cavalry squadron. But, don't be reckless, if my say so, your Grace."

"Just this once".

A couple of hours later, the army pulls out, and marches back down the road it has come. Night is falling, by the time they reach the position that Grey Worm has in mind. A good position. The road leads into a dense forest, giving them cover to retreat if the battle goes against them. On their right flank flows a river, swift and deep, and, he judges, impassable to horsemen. His scouts say the only ford lies miles to the West, although he will check this for himself. There has been steady rain in recent days, which is all to the good. The battlefield will be muddy, reducing the advantage of cavalry. On his left, the ground ascends sharply, up to a ridge of hills. He will place skirmishers there, but he expects no serious assault. No, the battle will be a slogging match, but one where he has plans to reduce the enemy's advantage in numbers still further. The enemy is still ten miles away, but his men yet have work to do, in advance of the fight. He gives his lieutenants their orders, and they set to their tasks


	11. The Wages of Treason

"Don't look away" Sansa chides her daughter. "Your future subjects will never respect a weakling." Catelyn stares straight ahead at the scene.

_Father, Mother, Robb, is this how it ends_? Two days ago, Sansa was informed that Robett Glover had surrendered Deepwood Motte to the mountain clans. His younger brother had been caught by her agents, attempting to flee Wintertown. She holds him responsible for his brother's treason, and he will now pay the price. Night is falling, and the Godswood is illuminated with torches. She sits with her daughter on a raised platform. Before her, a wooden cage has been suspended from a gibbet. Beneath the cage have been heaped logs and brushwood. The condemned man is led into the Godswood by her guards, his hands in fetters. He wears nothing but a loincloth, and shivers in the cold air. He struggles in his bonds, as he sees what awaits him, but it is useless. The cage is lowered, and a guard opens it up. The prisoner is driven inside. Sansa rises to her feet, to address the crowd. The entire court is present, including Maester Wolkan, and Jeyne Poole. Arya too, has been brought from her chambers, under guard. It will be instructive for her sister to witness proceedings,

"Behold the fate of those who commit treason against their Queen and their Motherland. The penalty for treason is, can only be, and must always be, death." She nods at the executioner, who winches the cage a few feet into the air. "Your Grace, I am innocent of treason," shouts the man. "Grant me the right to prove my innocence, by combat, against any man you name as your champion."

"Fire is the champion of House Stark." She nods again to the executioner, who takes one of the torches, and applies it to the brushwood. The wood is damp and will not catch light. A servant pours oil over the wood, and eventually it catches light. The fire burns brighter, and some of the flames reach the floor of the cage. She hears the man praying desperately and then he cries out:-

"Sansa Stark, you are no true Queen. We bled for you, but you stole your crown from your brother and from Daenerys Targaryen. Faithless, lying, treacherous. A traitor to your kin, and a tyrant to your subjects. A usurper who betrays the memory of her Father, Mother, and brother. I curse you, I denounce you. Sansa Stark, before the year is out, you too shall join me before the judgement seat of the gods!" She feels a wave of fury. "More oil" she commands the executioner. He and his mate empty the oil on to the logs, and the flames engulf the cage, even as the man's curses turn to screams. The floor of the cage collapses, and the man is pitched into the burning logs, still screaming, but not for long.

There is complete silence among the onlookers, shocked by what they have just witnessed and heard. "When the fire has cooled, leave the man's body for the wild beasts" she commands the executioner. To her intense annoyance, she hears Catelyn sobbing beside her. "I made a grave mistake this evening, Catelyn. I ought to have had his tongue cut out, beforehand." Her daughter just stares at her, through tear-streaked eyes, saying nothing. She leads the silent procession back to the Palace. In the atrium, a servant hands her a message, delivered by raven. She reads it and smiles. She turns to her court and proclaims "My lord husband has won a victory in the South. Once he has crushed the enemy, he will march North, and destroy the traitors at Deepwood Motte. We shall hold a service of thanksgiving in the Palace Sept, tomorrow." Her courtiers express their congratulations, although she suspects that their enthusiasm is feigned. _How far does treason extend into my inner circle?. _She approaches Arya. "I need to talk to you, sister." She leads her into her study. They sit on either side of her desk.

"I suppose you disapprove?"

"My approval or disapproval makes no odds I think; You'll do what you want to do. I've seen much worse than that in my life. But, I think you've destroyed your daughter's faith in her mother."

"Catelyn needs to learn what it is to be a ruler. It is not all about balls, and hunts, and banquets. It is about taking hard, but necessary, decisions."

"Was the man even guilty?"

"The treachery of one brother renders the other unreliable"

"I think if Sansa the girl could look into the future, and see Sansa the Queen, she'd react the same way your daughter did, tonight". Sansa sighs, remembering what she once was, and remains silent for a time.

"Sansa the girl was a fool. Joffrey, Cersei, Petyr Baelish, Margaery, Ramsay, Daenerys. Between them, they stripped away my illusions, and taught me what the world really is. Either you're the hunter, or you're the prey."

"Even if you defeat Yara Greyjoy, Sansa, there will be others. Will you put down the world, in order to keep your throne?"

Sansa is silent for a long time, beset with doubts. Then "I'm no fool Arya. I know that I'm fighting a long defeat. I can be frank with you. Whatever my propagandists may say, I know that my subjects hate me. They never gave me the love that they gave father and Robb. They may not have loved mother, but they respected her. I have no choice but to rule by fear. I've never had a choice. But, yes, I know that among my subjects, there is one who will strike me down eventually. I just have to keep going as long as I can. For the honour of our House."

"And, is that the kind of life you want for Catelyn?"

"Catelyn is the future of our House. Unless you decide to marry and have children. What other life can I give her?"

Arya opens her mouth to speak, but Sansa interrupts her "Yes, I know you'll say I should go into exile. Let me tell you something that Jon once told me. He said Daenerys hated the idea of being Queen, but she thought she had to avenge the downfall of her family. Her honour demanded that she fight for the Iron Throne. He said her dream was just to retire to a house with a red door and a lemon tree in the garden, and be forgotten by the rest of the world. At the time, I thought she was just being a hypocrite, pretending that she didn't lust after power. But now? Now, I think she was telling the truth. Maybe I wish I could find the house with the red door, but I can't. It doesn't exist. So, I have to stand and fight, to the bitter end. "

"And if the end does come, Sansa, what happens to Catelyn?" asks Arya, softly.

"She dies with me. Do you think I'd let them do to her the things that Ramsay Bolton did to me?"

"Yara Greyjoy's a ruthless woman. But, torturing and raping thirteen year old girls? That's not her."

"Arya, she's a degenerate. She couples with anything that moves!"

"That doesn't make her a monster. If it comes to it, let me take Catelyn to Castle Black. She'll be safe there. Save your daughter, at least."

Sansa bites back an angry retort. Perhaps it is an option, after all. "I'll think about it. I promise you no more than that. Now, you must return to your chambers. " Arya leaves the study, while Sansa remains lost in thought.

**Notes:**

Glover's curse on Sansa is similar to that which Jaques de Molay, Grand Master of the Knights Templar, pronounced on Philip the Fair, Enguerrand Marigny, and the Pope, when he was burned on trumped-up charges of heresy. All three did in fact die within the year


	12. The Dogs of War

Ser Raymond surveys the enemy position, three quarters of a mile away, observing them from his saddle. The mud sucks at his charger's fetlocks. He turns to his commanders. "The ground is unfavourable for our cavalry. Grey Worm wants us to attack. I won't oblige him. We'll wait them out. Lack of supplies will force them to withdraw. Then we'll harry them". As luck would have it, Norrey rides up excited.

"We have them in our power! We can destroy them for good!" His face shines with glee.

"What do you mean?"

"Come and see! I have a score of deserters, including half a dozen Unsullied. And what a tale they have to tell!"

They ride to meet the latest batch of deserters. In truth, it is encouraging. Over sixty men have deserted from the enemy in the past week. Most of them are Ironborn, but morale among the enemy must be very low, if even Unsullied are now deserting. They all tell a similar tale.

"It's not our war" says one of the Ironborn. "Our Queen has been pushed to one side by Grey Worm, and treated like dirt. He's fighting this war purely for vengeance. The Dragon Queen means nothing to me. "

"What about you?" Ser Raymond asks one of the Unsullied. The man shrugs. "I fought for the Dragon Queen. I'd fight for her again if she still lived, but what's the point now? This isn't our country. Naath is".

"I recommend we attack" cries Norrey, filled with enthusiasm. "And look!" he points to the enemy lines. The Unsullied are drawn up in the centre, unmoving. But the Ironborn and the Northern rebels, to either side of them look distinctly ill at ease. "See how their spears and banners are trembling" comments Tallhart. "That's never a good sign." Ser Raymond muses. Can the enemy really be about to break? If so, it would be madness not to attack. On the other hand, is it best to be cautious? The ground is unfavourable.

"The Queen's Grace would take it ill, if we missed our chance of victory today" comments Norrey. He glares at the man, but he sees it has an effect on Tallhart, Manderly, Cerwyn, even the captains of the sellswords. They know that a word from Norrey can see any one of them detained. "Very well, we attack. We have seven thousand horse. There is no point trying to gallop through this mud; we'll attack at a slow canter, and the foot will follow close behind. We'll bludgeon our way through.

"They're getting ready to attack". Grey Worm smiles , as he hands his spy-glass to Yara Greyjoy, who surveys the enemy forces, moving into position. "Our "deserters" have played their part," he comments. The volunteers are taking a terrible risk, by pretending to desert. They will have to take their chances of escaping. Each has been promised a rich reward, to be paid to their next of kin if they are killed. Grey Worm smiles again, as he surveys the right and left wings of the army, stretching for a mile and a half. "Your men look suitably demoralised." He, Yara, Qarl, Maege Mormont, and various of the commanders are having a last conference on horseback, behind the Unsullied in the centre of the line, the Targaryen and Kraken banners fluttering in the wind above them.

"I've got some good news as well" replies Yara, and tells them what she has heard from her spies in the early hours of the morning. "The wolf comes but once to the trap, and he shall not escape" Grey Worm replies. He takes back the spy glass, and surveys the battlefield again. It is quite level. He would have preferred a gentle slope in his favour, but his flanks can't be turned. No, he'll await the enemy charge, and the surprise that he has prepared for them. "Your Grace, please take your post. " She rides off, with Qarl, to join the cavalry on the right wing. They are heavily outnumbered in terms of cavalry, with no more than a thousand on each wing of the army, but on this battlefield, he does not expect it to be a problem. His Unsullied hold the centre, just short of four thousand, drawn up in four regiments, their ranks five deep; the Rescuer, the Lady of Victories, the Thunderbolt, the Conquering Meereenese. They are armed with a mix of pikes, pole axes, war hammers, and bills; armoured in plate of the highest quality , they do not carry shields. Eight thousand foot in total, comprising ironborn and Northern rebels are formed up on either side. They include more than a thousand archers, who will shoot from the flanks. He keeps a thousand Northmen in reserve, together with the fifth regiment of the Unsullied; the Mhysa, made up of his longest-serving veterans, every one of whom was liberated at Astapor all those years ago. The regimental standard bears an image of the Dragon Queen. He rides over to them and addresses them:

"Comrades, we have spent our whole lives together, almost. Every one of you remembers that day, when Daenerys Targaryen set us free. She led us to victory time and again, liberating men, women, and children wherever she went. She came to this country, and saved its people from different slave masters; demons of ice that would have enslaved them for eternity. And her reward? To be betrayed and butchered by those we fight today. Our Queen has waited fifteen years for justice, but today she shall receive it. We fight for freedom and for justice. Our enemies serve a tyrant for gain. Victory will be ours, and the people of this land will be set free for good. Are you with me!" The soldiers roar with approval. He turns his horse, and sees a great wave of enemy cavalry breaking out of the enemy lines, bearing the banners of their lords and commanders. The die is cast!

**Notes:**

1\. The Lady of Victories is a goddess worshipped by the Unsullied. It would be natural for a regiment to be called Mhysa, (and some would worship Dany as a goddess). The other three have names similar to Roman legions.

2\. The "Deserters" are the equivalent of the Forlorn Hope, men who would lead a party to storm a breach. They would be expected to be killed or wounded, on the understanding that if they survived, they would be richly rewarded, and if they were killed, the reward would go to their next of kin. One can always find people who will risk their lives if the reward is great enough.


	13. The Last Fight of the Unsullied

_This is war as it should be! Doing the will of the Queen and the will of the gods, and riding her enemies to ruin_ . This is Norrey's first battle, and his heart stirs with excitement. He rides with the rear rank of the cavalry, on the left flank of the Northern army, as they start to trot forward. He had no need to fight, but volunteered to ride with Lord Cerwyn's men. "Kill them All! The Gods will look after their own!" he cries out, to the men around him. One horseman stares at him as if he is mad. The mud is a problem, constantly slowing them, but they gradually pick up speed. Four hundred yards ahead, he sees Yara Greyjoy's Kraken banners, fluttering over the enemy lines. He hopes she survives the fight. He'll enjoy interrogating that bitch! He's heard she likes pretty girls. He might pair her with another woman for his own amusement. "Get your damned visors down" shouts Cerwyn to the riders. "They'll start shooting at us in a moment". He does as the man orders, just as well. Within seconds, arrows are slashing into their ranks. One of them bounces off his breastplate. spinning away. There is no chance of arrows penetrating armour from three hundred yards, but here and there horses are going down. They pick up speed, reaching a slow canter, as volleys of arrows fall among them in earnest. No more than a hundred yards, now; surely no army can withstand this weight of steel bearing down on them! _With this army, I could storm heaven itself_. He keens wildly, anticipating the killing to come.

Yara watches as the lines of horsemen sweep down on them. She recognises some of the banners, the three trees of Cerwyn, the giant in chains of Umber, the Merman of Manderly. No more than a hundred yards now. Footmen armed with long spears and shields move forward to protect the archers, now shooting eight arrows a minute. She sees horses stumbling in the mud, and going down right across the line, but arrows alone won't stop them. On the other hand, shallow pits, dug under cover of darkness, before being covered with brushwood and earth, will do just that. Hundreds of horses go down, as the ground seems to open up beneath them, thirty yards from the front ranks of the ironborn. The pits are not deep, but quite sufficient to break the legs of horses that fall into them unawares. Worse, the pits are lined with small wooden stakes or caltrops, which cause additional harm. She winces as she hears injured horses screaming, although she feels little pity for their riders. She sees the footmen advancing steadily forward, bludgeoning and spearing the fallen horsemen, and stepping between the pits before re-forming. The rear ranks of the enemy cavalry mill about in confusion.

"Shall we charge?" asks Sigurd Harlaw, mounted next to her.

"Not yet. We've still got an ace to play". They hold steady, the horses straining to attack. And then,

"Good gods! " Harlaw exclaims. "Are they fighting each other." It's true. Hundreds of sellsword cavalry are attacking their astonished comrades, right in front of them." Yara is grinning, like a thief who's just stolen the fattest purse of her career.

"My old friend, Casporio the Cunning, but to those of us who know and love him, Casporio the Cunt. I met him first in Meereen, and we've stayed in touch. I knew he could be turned if the price was right. Sansa should never trust sellswords. Now, we move."

The cavalry trot down a clear path between the pits and fan outwards. The enemy left wing is in total disarray as they join Casporio's company. The Loyal Swords, they call themselves. The Treacherous Arseholes would be more fitting

She spies Casporio, leading from the rear of his cavalry, as usual, and calls a greeting. He waves in acknowledgment, and then she plunges into the fray, uttering one final prayer to the Drowned God. A horseman saws his reins to meet her, thrusting his lance, but she turns it with her sword, urging her horse into his, and jerking the man out of the saddle. She and her riders drive on. Another man cuts at her, grazing her breastplate, before she gives him a good, hard, chop to the neck, sending him tumbling. She spies Qarl and Sigurd laying about them manfully. The world contracts to the reach of her sword, steel ringing on steel, men and horses screaming, the taste of blood in her mouth. She sees the banner of Cerwyn fall, before a screaming fanatic rides hard for her, shouting abuse. The man swings at her head with a war hammer, which she catches on her sword, the impact shuddering up her arm. With her left hand, she draws her axe, spurs forward, and drives it hard into his visor, blood and jelly spurting from the eye holes. And then the enemy break. Although she does not know it, she has just killed Norrey, while Cerwyn and Manderly lie dead on the ground. The remaining cavalry stream back, riding down their own footmen in their desperation to escape. The footmen break up in panic in turn as the whole left wing of the Northmen dissolves in rout.

Ser Raymond Hightower watches the unfolding disaster on his left wing with fury. He rides with his reserves, just behind the ranks of footmen in the centre. Tallhart is with him. "Take your men, and the remaining reserves, and form a shield wall to protect our centre. " _Damn Norrey! _His instincts had been right. . Never do what Grey Worm wants you to do!. That should have been obvious. As for The Loyal Swords, he'll have them flayed alive after this is over. Despite the rout on the left, the battle is far from over. The horsemen in front of him have had the good sense to dismount, and join the foot, to fight the Unsullied, who have advanced beyond the pits. As far as he can tell, the carnage is appalling on both sides, neither of which has gained the advantage. And on the right, if anything, his men seem to be pushing the enemy back. Perhaps the day can be won after all.

"We're hard pressed, my lord" pants the squire, riding over from the Bear Islanders on the left, to Grey Worm. "I don't think we can hold them." He looks over. On the far left flank, a furious cavalry battle is taking place, and it's unclear who has the advantage. There is no doubt that his footmen are giving back, although they remain in good order. But in a few minutes, they might break in flight. Time for the Mhysa to earn their pay."To the left" he commands. The regiment pivots left and marches fast into the fray, as he rides in their midst. Suddenly his horse collapses, felled by an enemy arrow, but he is able to jump clear as it falls. Three ranks ahead, he hears a sound like the rumble of thunder as his men close with the steel clad foot of the North. Time now to fight. "I thought you might want this my lord", his squire hands him a pole axe, which he takes in both hands. Grimly his men press forward, but many of them fall. At last, he finds himself confronting the enemy. A giant, clad in black armour, strikes at his head with a war hammer, but he catches the blow with his axe. He may be well into middle age now, but he trains every day, and handles the poleaxe with ease, driving the man to his knees with deft blows. A final blow to the back of the man's neck leaves him prone. "Cockless cunt!" screams a Northmen, levelling a crossbow at his head, five yards away, only for the man to take a hand axe between his eyes, thrown by Grey Worm's own squire. "My thanks; now you're a centurion", he tells the man, who expresses his thanks. His men press on, their pikes driving into enemy ranks. Slowly, very slowly, he senses the enemy giving back, but still in good order. He strikes again and again, remembering an old saying "he is not fit for battle who has not seen his own blood flow, or felt his teeth crunch beneath the weight of an enemy's blow". If he survives this fight, he'll have a fresh crop of bruises, and he suspects, a couple of fractured ribs. He cannot tell what is happening in the centre, but he has confidence in his regiments.

From his horse, Ser Raymond can see that the battle is being lost. The Unsullied have taken terrible losses, but are still holding firm, even as the dead bodies of his own men pile up in front of them. For the time being, Tallhart is holding off the enemy's victorious right. His own right, who seemed to be winning a short while ago, are now edging back, before the Mhysa, the Bear Islanders, and the Ironborn. No, it is time to retreat. Perhaps half the army can be salvaged, if he retreats now.

Even as he mounts the gallows, weeks later, he will still wonder if the battle could have been won.

Notes:

1\. Well-trained longbowmen would have had no difficulty shoot eight arrows a minute. The best could shoot a dozen a minute. Longbowmen shooting in volleys did not bother to aim. With thousands of arrows being fired every minute, some would be bound to find their targets. The priority was speed of shooting.


	14. The Aftermath

Yara dismounts from her horse, as her men ransack the enemy camp. Inevitably, Casporio and his men have got there first to plunder it. She sees him, dismounted, and surrounded by his cronies, wearing a gilded helmet, obviously looted, and swigging from a bottle of wine, declaiming to his men:

"Brave champions of the Loyal Swords!" The men crow with laughter.

"Forget that. Brave men of the Loyal Swords!" More laughter.

"Well, men, anyway!" He flourishes his bottle as they applaud. " We end this glorious day far richer than we began it. All thanks to her Grace, Yara Greyjoy, rightful Queen of North. " He waves his bottle in her direction, as his men cheer lustily, and she bows.

"As you well know" continues Casporio, "I have never been a man to risk your lives unnecessarily. Or at all, if I can avoid it. Honour and glory on the field of war are best left for better men than us. Or stupider men at any rate. Our task is to grow rich!" More laughter and applause. Yara joins him and butts in "Cut the crap Casporio, your task is far from over. You've got two hundred horse. There's a beaten army to pursue. Half of them got away. I doubt if there's much fight left in them, but I don't want to give them any chance to regroup. You get paid once you're job is done; not before. And give me that bottle" Casporio shakes his head sadly; "You're a hard taskmistress, your Grace. And, I love you for it. Come on lads! There are fleeing enemies to pursue! " He hands her the bottle, and then they mount their horses and ride away.

She takes a deep swallow. The wine is good. She is exhausted after the fight. She wanders through the camp, where a wild party seems to be in progress, as the soldiers get increasingly drunk. She meets Grey Worm, surrounded by his staff. He has a bandage wrapped around his head, and obscuring his left eye. "Your eye!" she cries. "I know" he responds. "An arrow took it, right at the end of the fight. "

"Oh Gods!" she responds.

"I knew the risks I was running, your Grace. The day is ours. Half the enemy got away, but the remaining sellswords won't fight on. And, I'm willing to bet that most Northern lords will be rushing to make peace with you, now. "

"I won't be offering peace to everyone. Some crimes can't be forgiven"

"I know that too. There will be those who will know that surrender is not an option. They will make a last stand with Sansa. Perhaps at White Harbour, with the Manderlys, but more likely Winterfell. It will be a tough nut to crack, but I expect we'll have most of the North on our side now. We've shown them that they need no longer fear her."

"Sansa ought to ride hard for White Harbour, and take ship. But, she's never been a coward, whatever her other faults. She wouldn't have survived Ramsay Bolton if she had been. " She is silent for a moment. Then "I know that the Beast did to her. He did the same things to my brother. If she did nothing else in her life that was good, at least she rid the world of that animal. What's the butcher's bill?"

"Half my men, killed or injured". She winces. "We were fighting their best, on the centre and left. The Royal Horseguards, the men at arms, the most skilled of their foot. Perhaps four thousand casualties on our side, all told, twice that number on theirs. And a few thousand prisoners. What do you want to do with them?"

"Most of them? Give them the chance to switch sides, or disarm them and send them home if they won't. Any murderers and rapists among them, we hang".

""Some of them were in the Inquisition. They had taken prisoners out of the camps, to serve the army. The prisoners can identify them to us, and then I'll kill them."

"Hanging is too good for those bastards. We'll burn them alive. It will cheer their prisoners. Get them to work for us "

"You'll have no disagreement from me on that score. Plenty of my people have died in agony at their hands. " Despite his pain, Grey Worm smiles. "I've waited fifteen years for this. I don't know if she's a goddess, but wherever she is now, I know she's smiling on us. "

"We've avenged her, old friend. The only one left is Jon Snow. But, if he was the sword, The Imp, Tarly, and Sansa were the arm directing the blow. I don't think that creature in Kings Landing counts. You're right, the longer he remains in place, the less of a threat they are to us. What were they thinking, electing him as their King? "Bran the Broken?" More like "Bran the Witless?""

"I've often thought about that. I think Tyrion wanted a weak king in place, so that he could rule the Six Kingdoms. What he didn't realise was that ruling was beyond his abilities. He ought to have known. Every bit of advice he gave our Queen was disastrous."

"Was he playing her false, do you think?"

"I've asked myself the same question, a hundred times. I think he was trying to play her off against his own family, in order to prove to them all that he was the cleverest. And, yet, he wasn't clever. He thought with his cock. In the end, it was so very easy to kill him off."

Qarl the Maid strolls over to them. "We're roasting a whole boar, Yara, and we've got a barrel of excellent Dornish. Grey Worm, will you join us. " The three stroll over to a splendid pavilion, evidently owned by one of the Northern high command. Later that evening, the burning of a dozen inquisitors will round off what has been a momentous day for them.

**Notes:**

Casporio has a fair amount in common with Nicomo Cosca of the First Law Trilogy, by Joe Abercrombie.


	15. Sansa's Choice

The Queen enters the throne room at eleven o'clock. She heard the news of the disaster in the South, the previous evening. As usual she is quite impassive. She feels calm, almost relieved, now. She has played the game for nearly twenty years. Now, she is resigned to her own death. She will stand a siege at Winterfell, but she is in no doubt about the likely outcome. The only people who will stand by her are those who know they can expect no mercy from Yara Greyjoy and Greyworm. Yet, she still has a card to play; she has lost to the Kraken whore, but she still has the means of robbing her victory of any sweetness. She has dressed with considerable care. She wears her platinum crown, and cloth of silver dress with red weirwood embroidery. The same she wore all those years ago, when she posed for her own portrait by Master Falier. It still hangs in pride of place, in her throne room._ Is this how Cersei felt, during the last days of her life, waiting for the Dragon Queen to destroy her?_

She laughs inwardly, as she remembers an old poem, about rulers who were branded as tyrants. She imagines herself, Cersei, Margaery Tyrell, and Daenerys, in the next world, each of them debating which was the worst on earth. She senses nervousness among the courtiers. Some will know what has happened, or will have guessed it, anyway. She speaks, without preamble:-

"We have suffered a major defeat in the South. Perhaps half the army got away, but many of them will desert during the retreat. " An anxious muttering sweeps the room. Then she surprises them.

"I will remain at Winterfell to stand against my enemies. But, any one of you is free to leave." Some of them will take advantage of that opportunity. Others will know that leaving is not an option. Either way, she does not want anyone left with her who is not committed to her cause.

"We are with you, now and always" proclaims one sycophant. She sees that it is the Umber lover of Lord Cerwyn's younger son. Toad! You'll be the first to run. She considers a sarcastic response, but refrains. What after all is the point? All her life, she has done her best to honour Father, Mother, and Robb, and her ancestors. There is no shame in being defeated, so long as you have done your best. She remembers a verse from one of the sagas; _"Will shall be the sterner, heart the bolder, spirit the greater as our strength lessens."_ All of her life, she has tried to live by this creed.

She addresses the President of the Inquisition, an Ibbenese named Beria, a man who can certainly expect no mercy from her enemies. "We will need to be fed. Gather all the stocks of food available in Wintertown, and then burn the town to the ground. Let the whore of Pyke camp on scorched earth. ". Her sister is present, making no effort to hide the disgust this order causes her. The townsfolk will starve, but such is war. Catelyn, sitting next to her, just remains silent, hiding away inside herself, she suspects, as she has done since the burning in the Godswood. They have barely spoken since that night. Such a pity that her daughter should be a weakling. "Your will, my Queen," replies the man, and leaves the room to give the necessary orders.

She discusses arrangements for the provisioning of the remains of her army; the state of munitions in Winterfell; the condition of its walls; Winterfell is still a fortress, as much as it is a palace; shrewdly, she has strengthened the defences during her reign, building extra towers and walls. As many as four thousand men can be accommodated within the walls. She has about a thousand at present, but more will flee there, as her enemies close in. She makes a mental note to swap her bodyguards for inquisitors. The latter can't betray her, as they can't hope for a pardon. No, she can't win, but she will make her enemies pay a terrible price for victory.

As far as she can tell, no more than twelve thousand of Yara Greyjoy's men were left fit to fight, after the battle. But, the mountain clans will surely be marching down the road from Deepwood Motte at this point, through the Wolfswood, to begin the siege. How right she was to order the execution of the prisoners in the camps! At least they can't swell the ranks of her enemies. And, many of her lords will be rushing to switch sides, now, cowards and curs that they are. As for the Smallfolk, they'd burn her alive if they caught her, doubtless after a round of rape and torture. They will aid the invader, regardless of the cost. No, she will be hugely outnumbered. _But, I will not go down in history as the Queen Who Bent the Knee_

But what to do about Catelyn, she muses, as the audience ends, and she takes her daughter's hand, and leads her away, unresisting? Before the audience, she spoke to Mother Mole, her astrologer. The witch had suggested burning her daughter on a pyre in the Godswood, as a sacrifice to enlist the aid of the infernal powers. She won't do that. Stannis Baratheon tried exactly that, all those years ago, just a few miles away, only to find that his wife had hanged herself, and half his army had deserted. The powers of darkness are ever liars. She ponders her daughter's fate, as they walk back to her chambers. Should she keep her with her to the end, or send her away with Arya and Jeyne Poole? She has to choose within the next couple of days.

**Notes:**

1\. Master Falier painted Sansa in The Queen's Portrait.

2\. Sansa insulted Umber in the Road to War.

3\. The verse that Sansa quotes to herself is from Tolkien's translation of the Battle of Maldon, which was remembered as a glorious Anglo-Saxon defeat at the hands of the Danes. Tolkien named it the Northern Theory of Courage; that defeat is no refutation, and that it is better to die in a good cause than to live in dishonour. Admittedly, Sansa's idea of what is a good cause is somewhat skewed.

4.. In the show, Melisandre persuaded Stannis to burn his daughter, in order to end a snowstorm.


	16. Happy Reminiscences

Grey Worm chuckles as he tells the tale of the Imp's demise to Yara, Qarl, Sigurd Harlaw, and Maege Mormont, as they all share a flagon of wine, in Yara's tent. They have spent the past week marching towards Torrhens Square, pursuing the beaten army.

"As you know, he was a pervert. He couldn't keep his hands off women and girls. I've often wondered if it was sexual jealousy that led him to betray the Queen. Anyway, his best friend was Bronn, who he made Master of Coin, and Lord of Highgarden. Imagine it! A venial, illiterate sellsword, who didn't even know what a loan was, being made Master of Coin! You can understand why the South fell apart so rapidly under their rule. Bronn's only real financial decision was to build more brothels. Brothels were certainly destroyed when Kings Landing was taken by storm, and there were plenty of starving women and girls in the vicinity who would do anything to earn a crust. Men and boys too, although I don't think the Imp was interested in them. So, brothels were constructed. The rest of their revenue was spent on the army, or found its way into the pockets of Bronn, the Imp, and Tarly. Tarly, at least, did suggest introducing running water into Kings Landing, but no one was interested, least of all the idiot king, or his council, who thought of the Smallfolk as livestock in any case. Anyway, the Six Kingdoms soon started falling apart under their rule. You destroyed them at sea, your Grace, and won your independence. The Dornish saw no reason why they should be loyal to a man who did nothing for them, and they soon broke away too. Sooner or later, Kings Landing will have no choice except to recognise their independence.

Apart from lining his own pockets, the Imp found that governing the South was no bed of roses. He suffered one military reverse after another (some of which I played a part in). Bronn could have been useful militarily, but he too just wanted to grow rich. As you know, the Reach is a breadbasket, and he thought he could hold the rest of the country to ransom. Naturally, it did nothing to enhance the popularity of the regime, among the population as a whole. The Imp took to drink, and to whoring. Of course, those had always been his weaknesses, but now they became a compulsion. He was always, at least, half cut by lunchtime, and he regarded a day without a woman as a day wasted. I had agents among the whores and winesellers of Kings Landing. The whores found him disgusting. A noseless dwarf is never going to be the most attractive of bedmates, but he liked them to do things they found degrading, so I was told. He was out of control. I did think of letting him live, because of all the harm he was doing to his own cause, but no, he deserved to meet his end for persuading Jon Snow to do what he lacked the guts to do himself. So, it was really very simple in the end. There was a bawd named Chataya, whose brothel he especially liked to visit. When one of my agents approached her, she proved very amenable to letting her join her girls. It turned out, she hated the Imp as much as her whores did. So, it was really very easy for my agent to finish him off. Granted, she had to have sex with him first, but she kept plying him with wine until he passed out. Then, she cut his throat. But, the best of was, she wasn't finished. She was so nauseated by him, that she cut off his cock and scrotum, before stuffing them in his mouth, and then departing. Chataya and the girls were delighted, however much they had to pretend to be shocked. " The room rocked with laughter at this tale.

"They gave him a State funeral, but I gather all the mourners could talk about was finding his cock and balls in his mouth". There was more laughter.

"So tell us about Tarly and Bronn" asked Maege.

"There's not a lot to tell. But, you know that Tarly never qualified as a Maester. Nonetheless, the King foisted him on to the Citadel as Grand Maester. They didn't like him there, I can tell you. He was arrogant and ignorant in equal measure, and of course, qualified people don't like duffers being promoted over their heads. He also kept a paramour called Gilly. He'd often promised her marriage, but of course, he never kept his promise. Anyway, she hated him. She was the mother of his child, but to him, she was just one of his whores. It was very easy to suborn her. She gave us details of his movements, and my agents broke into his chambers one night. They stuffed a pear down his throat, choking him. Gilly watched it throughout. She was most amused. She told them they ought to have stuffed it up his rear end. As for Bronn, all it took to remove him was a poisoned mushroom. The relatives of the Tyrells were duly grateful when they recovered Highgarden. They owe me a big favour, so I think you'll have no difficulty feeding the North, should there ever be famine, your Grace."

Ser Tristifer Botley pokes his head round the entrance to the tent. "We've captured Tallhart your Grace. Do you want to hang him?"

"No, he can buy his life by persuading his men to surrender Torrhens Square. If they refuse, then by all means, send him back to them by trebuchet. "

"So justice is almost served" comments Grey Worm. "Only Queen Sansa remains."

"Probably the most dangerous of them all. People have often underrated her. That has usually proved fatal to them."

Maege is uneasy. "Your Grace, I understand that you intend to rub her nose in her defeat. Rightly so. I accept, she has to stand trial, so that her crimes may be made known to the world. Nevertheless, it might save lives if we could persuade her to surrender. Perhaps she would do so if you were to offer to deliver her into the custody of my mother. My mother is not a cruel woman. Sansa may fear that if she is sent into exile in the Iron Islands, you will quietly dispose of her at some point in the future. My family would guarantee her life, and assure her that she would not be ill-treated in captivity. We cannot offer her the luxury of Winterfell on Bear Island, but her life would at least be comfortable, and we are of the North."

"Far better than she deserves" mutters Grey Worm.

Yara ponders this for a few minutes. "Far better than she deserves, as you say, but Winterfell will be a tough nut to crack. If I can save the lives of a couple of thousand of my men, then it would be worth it. I think you'll find that Sansa will never yield, Maege, but it is still worth a try."

**Notes:**

This chapter is mostly fan service. Readers of my other fics will know that I loathe the Tyrion of Season 6 onwards with a passion. Bungling, useless, sanctimonious, and treacherous.

There are really are no words in all the tongues of elves and men to sufficiently express my feelings towards him


	17. The Last Farewell

Arya stares across the charred ruin of Wintertown, towards the Wolfswood. A light snow drifts gently down, settling on the fields that stretch out towards the forest. Somewhere out there, the mountain clans are marching towards the Palace. Somewhere out there, thousands of prisoners have been butchered on her sisters's orders. She feels nothing but horror for what her sister has become; yet she loves her still. Is this what Jon felt for his aunt at the end? She had applauded Jon for killing Daenerys, but could she kill Sansa to save innocent lives? No. Which makes me a hypocrite. Love is the death of duty, after all, but given the choice, I will always favour love over duty. No one is more accursed than the kinslayer, and we forced Jon to condemn himself. I helped to persuade him to the deed. He did what I could never do, and would never do, and he will hate himself for the rest of his life. Would Daenerys have been a good Queen, had they not driven a wedge between her and Jon, and between her and her advisors? She certainly could not have been worse than either my brother or my sister. That is a bitter truth to digest. Her family used the Dragon Queen to clear a path to power, and made themselves hated as a result. The Starks will go down in history more reviled than the Lannisters or Freys. Father, Mother, Robb died as heroes. The rest of us will die despised. Yet, I saw what Daenerys did to the people of Kings Landing. I heard her victory speech, and it chilled my blood. We were right to fear her

Her position is a curious one. She is technically a prisoner. The men she took with her from Castle Black still languish in the Palace dungeons. Yet, she has the run of the Palace, now, and could easily make her escape. Her sister is perfectly friendly towards her, and indeed seems almost happy. She knows that Sansa does not expect to survive the coming siege, but her sister is strangely serene. Does she even feel remorse for any of her acts? She doubts it. She watches as a small company of soldiers marches through the gates to the Palace. Even now, soldiers are rallying to her sister. Men who can expect no mercy from the new regime, mostly. But, not all. Despite everything, there are those who are still loyal to the Starks of Winterfell, and willing to die for them. She feels a wave of shame at the way their trust has been betrayed. She hears footsteps approaching. She turns to see Jeyne Poole, her sister's Lady in Waiting, and oldest friend. She has talked to her, sufficiently to suspect that she shares her feelings about Sansa's behaviour. Jeyne takes her hand, before speaking:

"Torrhens Square has surrendered, Arya. Yara Greyjoy will be here within a fortnight, the mountain clans within the week. And, there's more. The Prince Consort has been captured. I doubt if the enemy will show him mercy."

"I think he knew the risks he was running, when he married my sister. I barely know the man, but he bears his share of the blame for my sister's reign". Jeyne looks frightened.

"I will speak frankly now, Jeyne. My sister has ruled the North as a tyrant, and her rule has almost come to an end. We may have had worse monarchs in the past, but not many. You don't need to say anything, just listen to me."

"Even just listening can be deemed subversion. People have been sent to the camps for less."

"The camps will have fallen to the enemy by now. I hate to imagine what they found there." She sees Jeyne wince. She knows.

"When the castle falls, " comments Jeyne, "they'll hang me along with the others. Perhaps they'll do other things, as well. Everyone knows what happens to the women, when a fortress is taken by storm, " she adds, grimly.

"I don't think Yara would execute women." Jeyne shakes her head. "I'm her oldest friend. I've grown rich as a result of that friendship. They might spare the Queen, but they'll want scapegoats. "

"You could escape?"

"Where to? No, I've asked Maester Wolkan for a vial of wolfsbane. THAT is my escape route."

"Don't throw your life away, Jeyne. We may still get away from this."

A servant approaches them. "Lady Arya, Lady Jeyne, the Queen's Grace requires the presence of you both." The servant leads them to the Queen's study, where she is discussing the progress of the war with Beria, and a couple of her commanders.

"White Harbour still holds firm for your Grace, and can be resupplied from the Sea" she hears Beria say, as they enter. "The Iron Fleet is concentrated on the West coast. "

"Not forever, I should think."

"It would take them months to blockade the East. "

"Arya, Jeyne, how good to see you" the Queen greets them warmly. "As you know, we will shortly stand siege. I have reached a decision, regarding the Princess Catelyn. I shall send her to White Harbour, with an escort of two score riders. You are to accompany them. You will keep her safe, and in so doing, will spare yourselves the dangers of a siege. She is betrothed to young Manderly in any event. I have no objection to the wedding being performed on her arrival."

"You're not sending her to Castle Black, then?"

"Place my daughter in the hands of a traitor? Gods no!" she replies. "What would stop him from selling her to Yara Greyjoy?"

Arya goes cold with anger and hisses "You truly imagine Jon would do that?"

"He hates me, Arya. What better way to strike against me. You may leave for White Harbour, with my daughter, or you may wait here until the end, and take your chances. The choice is yours. The party will leave in the morning."

"And my men?"

"Ah now, you can't expect me to let them accompany you. Once I have a raven confirming your safe arrival at White Harbour, then I shall release your men. Even if we're under siege by then, no harm will come to men of the Nights Watch."

Cunning devil! But what choice does she leave me? "You leave me no option".

"Good. I'm doing you both a favour, if only you can see it."

She glances at Jeyne. The relief on her face is palpable. Perhaps there is some merit to this idea, after all. However strong White Harbour is, why should the Manderlys persist in a lost cause? Then, she remembers, the Manderlys are the one family in the North whose loyalty to the Starks, any of the Starks, is unwavering. They will stand by Sansa to the bitter end. She has chosen well.

Sansa is waiting for her, as she prepares to leave, the following dawn. They all wear thick furs against the cold. " A word, Arya, before you leave. " They draw apart from the others. "I know that I've given you ample cause to hate me. I won't ask you for your forgiveness. You have no reason to forgive me. I simply wanted to say goodbye to you, for the last time. We shan't meet again. " There is a pause, then " Do you remember, how we feasted, after the victory over the Dead? How, we all sang your praises for slaying the Night King? Even the Dragon Queen did. " She smiles wistfully, remembering those times. "You'll hear of my death, before long. The world will rejoice at the news. But, if you can, try to remember the times when the pack was united, before everything fell apart. "

Arya rides away in tears, wondering how her sister will now spend her last days on earth.


	18. Death in the Crypts

Maester Wolkan is a troubled man. He fears the coming siege. He fears for his own neck, once Winterfell has been taken. More than anything, though, he fears whatever secret lies hidden in the crypts beneath the Palace. The Queen had avoided them for years, understandably so. No one would forget the night that the corpses of her ancestors had risen from their tombs and attacked them all. After victory, the piles of bones, had just been dumped back in the tombs. without ceremony, before they were resealed. No one has been down there since that time, apart from him, but now, the Queen is in and out continuously. Perhaps she just goes there to pray, but why is she accompanied by Beria, and other inquisitors? No, there is something going on down there, and he needs to get to the bottom of it.

He knows the passageways and stairwells of the Palace like the back of his hand. He leaves his chambers, and walks towards the servants' quarters. He finds his way to a little-used stairwell, and descends it, very, very, quietly. He makes his way to the bottom of and then treads lightly towards an emergency exit, which leads out of the crypts. Carefully, carefully, he turns the lock, draws open the door, and enters. It is dark in here, although, not quite pitch black, as there lightwells, here and there, and it takes time for his eyes to adjust. He holds a small, covered, lamp, and lights the wick, to provide him with a little more light. He has to be careful where he is going, The crypts are a rabbit warren, filled with the junk of centuries. They have a stale, airless, quality about them. He knows he could be down here for hours, searching for his quarry. He starts suddenly, as something runs across his foot. A rat! The crypts teems with them. No amount of effort can eradicate vermin from the Palace.

He reaches the first of the tombs, of Torrhen Karstark, the King Who Knelt. In a way, it is fitting that Sansa, the Queen who refuses to kneel, should be the last Stark who will ever reign at Winterfell. Will she be buried here, he wonders? He suddenly remembers that Ramsay Bolton met his end down here, and shudders. Does his ghost hover here still, chuckling at Sansa's impending end? Or worse, was the man right? Had he moulded Sansa into a replica of himself? Not quite. Despite all her crimes and sins, at the very least, she has never taken pleasure in torture and murder. Never taken pleasure. But, she has waded through the blood of innocents during her reign. For some years, he had tried to guide her, before giving up, focusing on the young princess. Thank the gods that Sansa sent her away at the last. He had really feared that Sansa would take her daughter's life, rather than risk her falling into the hands of her enemies. Poor Catelyn! How will she remember her mother? It must be very hard to come to terms with learning that the one you loved is a monster! She had found that out, when Glover was burned in the Godswood.

He creeps stealthily forward, past tombs and statues. Here and there, passageways branch away, past doors that have never been opened in centuries. At random, he tries one of the passages. Only to hear footsteps, and a voice, behind, that he recognises as that of Beria. He will be caught! If he runs, they will certainly hear him and track him down. Desperately, he tries a door, which opens. He breaths a silent prayer of thanks to the old gods and the new. He leaves the door slightly ajar, and peers out. Beria walks past, accompanied by a young officer, and a pair of inquisitors. "The Flints, and Wulls, and the other clans will reach us by tomorrow. Not, that they'll find anything to live on. My men were quite thorough with Wintertown" she hears him say. "They'll have to live off their own supplies, and the game in the Wolfswood." They walk off into the distance. After a few minutes, Wolkan plucks up his courage, and emerges from his chamber. He removes his shoes, and walks bearfoot on the stone flags, so as to be sure of making no sound.

At last, he reaches a wide vaulted chamber. He can hear crates being shifted. He creeps forward, and hides behind a barrel, trying to see what is going on. It is very difficult to be sure, in this gloom, until he glances at the barrel itself. He traces the sigil that is etched into the side of the barrel. The old mark of the Alchemists' Guild, rivals to the Order of Maesters through the centuries. And, so it is now very, very clear, just what Sansa is planning for her enemies, when the Palace is taken. Gods above! He will not allow this! All his life, he has hidden behind the rules of his Order, first serving the Boltons, and then Sansa. But no longer, he will not let this enormity take place! He turns, and creeps from his hiding place. He does not know if he can escape from the Palace, but he will send out ravens, even if it costs him his life.

There is a loud whirring noise, and he feels something punch him in the side. Confused, he falls to the ground, peering into the gloom. "What is this?" he asks, or tries to, but already, his mouth is filling with blood. Someone raises a torch above him, and he sees the young officer holding a crossbow, realising now that he has been shot, and the bolt is buried in his lungs. Only, he now sees that the young officer is the Queen, wearing a uniform and breastplate, with her hair tucked beneath a half-helm.

"I bear you no ill-will Wolkan. Forgive me, if you can. You're a good man and a faithful servant". He sees Beria join her. She continues, quite calm, as if she is discussing the weather. "I'm actually very sorry about this. It's just a shame that you weren't made for a royal court. Men like you, with clear, simple goals, just don't have the mental agility to survive at Court." He tries to speak, but all he can do is spew blood. It's becoming hard to breathe, even to concentrate. Indifferently, Sansa keeps talking "You're not really to blame. Sometimes, people just find themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time. But, you really should have known better than to investigate something that's none of your business. Oh, and by the way, I'm sorry about this, but I'm going to have to have your body thrown into a furnace. It would be bad for my reputation if people knew I'd murdered my own Maester. " If Wolkan hadn't been dying, he would have spluttered indignantly. As it was, he did splutter, but only succeeded in coughing incoherently. "Oh, don't be like that. I just have to dispose of the evidence. I'm sure people will wonder where you've gone, but a few words here and there about how you wanted to escape, and the rumour mill will take care of the rest."

Then, nothing.

**Notes:**

Sorry Wolkan. Murder comes very easy to Sansa, at this point in her career.


	19. Flight to the South

Arya hears a group of them, muttering round the campfire. "She's a pretty thing, isn't she?' mutters one. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" asks another. Her misgivings have grown as they have ridden South over the past week, by the banks of the Derwent River, reaching its confluence with the White Knife. She doesn't like the way that so many of the men look at Catelyn, or Jeyne, for that matter. As usual, she is armed to the teeth, with a short sword strapped to her waist, a hand axe hanging from her saddle, and a pair of daggers on her person, one in her boot, the other up her sleeve. No, she could defend herself well enough, but she worries for the other two; Catelyn was taught to fence, but she has never fought at close quarters, as Arya has. The troopers they ride with are a rough lot, and, she is more and more convinced, untrustworthy. She knows from Jon that Yara Grejoy would not hurt Catelyn; she had even thought of riding for Yara's lines with the Princess, but that would mean abandoning the prisoners of the Nights Watch to their fate, at her sister's hands. Yet, she fears the men she rides with have much worse in mind than simply selling Catelyn to Yara. A slaver would pay a rare price for the daughter of the Queen of the North; especially, one who had been "broken in" before sale.

She has watched them closely as they ride, through a disordered countryside. They've encountered mobs of unruly peasants and deserters, from time to time. Usually, they have been given a wide berth, although they've hidden in the woods a couple of times, from the larger bands. The country is in complete disorder, as her sister's authority breaks down. From time to time, they've come across burnt out settlements, flies hovering over the corpses of men, women, children, and animals. She'd rather forget one hideous scene, a couple of days ago. They came across a village, which had been sacked. They searched it for any supplies of food, and she entered a longhouse. The stench was indescribable. She hardly recognised the things that were stretched out on the floor, before realising they were human beings; they hadn't even used weapons to kill them, just a variety of household implements. The troopers were unconcerned, just searching for plunder. She's served with some hard cases in her time, but these are something else. Even as she is lost in thought, the commander of the troop, Lewyn Manderly, a very distant cousin of the late lord, comes up to her. "A word, my lady," he murmurs. He takes her arm, and leads her into the darkness.

"My men are about to desert. A countryside in chaos is far too great a temptation for them, But, I fear they'll do a lot worse than that."

"How well do you know them?"

"I don't. I've been in command for a little over six weeks."

"Can you trust any of them?"

"I just don't know". Arya thinks for several minutes, and reaches a painful decision. She has Catelyn, Jeyne, and Sansa's prisoners to think of, as against men who are strangers to her, who may or may not be trustworthy. Some are plainly guilty, others, in all likelihood, are innocent. As always, the Gods have left her no easy choice. "Lewyn" she whispers. "Toy with your stew, when it's served up later. Don't swallow it, I'll tell Catelyn, and Jeyne the same."

A short while later, the four of them sit in a huddle, as the soldiers eat. They hunted hares, earlier that day, which they stewed with roots, over the campfire.

"I feel rough" says a sergeant. He kneels on both knees, retching his guts. Then he screams. Short, high-pitched screams, of a man in agony. On all fours, now, he starts to convulse, as his companions stare at him with horror. Another rolls onto his back, his spine arching uncontrollably. All around them, now, men are clutching their bellies, rolling on the grass, dying badly. Several of them are howling like wolves in their pain.

"Bitch!" shrieks one, seemingly unaffected. He draws his sword. Then he coughs. He falls forward onto the ground, a red froth pouring from his mouth. Catelyn starts to keen, as Jeyne wraps her arms around her. "Look away, Sweetling" she murmurs, burying Catelyn's face in her breast.

"Walk away" commands Arya, fiercely, to the other three. "We're riding out of here".

"Did you kill them? asks Catelyn, staring at her, open-eyed.

"They would have done worse to you, Catelyn. I put a flask of Demon's Dance in the stew. I'm not proud of it. But, I'm not ashamed, either".

"First mother, then you. You murder people. I loved mother. I do love her. But, the things she does...I'm never going to see her again..." Catelyn breaks down, again.

"Your mother has made some very hard choices" says Arya, taking Catelyn into her arms from Jeyne. "I can't say your mother made the right choices. But, remember, your mother always loved you, and she always wanted the best for you."

"I saw a man burn in a cage. I can't get it out of my head!"

"Nor should you. Your mother was wrong, but she thought she was doing the right thing. Try to remember the good times. The times your mother was kind to you."

"I can't. It's all blood, and fire, and cruelty! I can't stand it!"

"That is the curse of our House, Catelyn. Your mother, me, King Bran, Uncle Jon , we made terrible choices, and the Gods have punished us for those choices. You don't need to do the same things. We cheated, betrayed, and destroyed a woman who came to the North in good faith to fight alongside us, against the Dead. The Dragon Queen fought with us, for all the people of this country, and we hated her for it. Your uncle loved her, and we pushed the pair of them into conflict. We wanted her dead. Purely for the sake of our own ambition. But, the Gods are not mocked Catelyn. We took oaths before a heart tree, and then we broke them. We spat in the Gods' faces. Only fools spit in the face of the Gods! We were fools! But, that's not you Catelyn. You can avoid the choices we made. You can choose to be good. All that I can do now is get you to safety."

They ride for a couple of miles in the darkness, before making a fresh camp. "Catelyn, Jeyne, " says Arya. "We have to be extremely careful from now on. Any one of the bands of men we encountered could attack us, and we're still two hundred miles from White Harbour. Any band of men we see, we hide, until they've gone past. I'll take first watch, now. Lewyn, you take over in a couple of hours, and then we'll start riding again at dawn. Arya thinks back at what happened. _I just poisoned forty men. And, I feel no more remorse for it than if I killed a nest of rats. But, what choice did I have?"_ Truly, the Gods have cursed House Stark.

**Notes:**

1\. Demon's Dance was a poison stolen from Pycelle's cabinet by Tyrion. I don't know what it is, but I'm assuming it's similar to strychnine.

2\. I don't know the name of the river that flows into the White Knife from Winterfell. Derwent (meaning Valley of Oaks) is a common English name for a river.

3\. An important theme to this series is Be Sure Your Sins Will Find You Out. There is a price to be paid, once you go down the path of betrayal, for ambition, but it may take many years for that price to be paid


	20. Parley at Winterfell

Yara waits for Sansa, in the no-man's land between her siege lines, and Winterfell's walls. She has fifteen thousand men, a mix of ironborn, exiles, and men from the mountain clans. Grey Worm is marching on White Harbour, with the remaining soldiers. Feeding so many is difficult, but the smallfolk have been helpful, bringing in supplies from miles around . They yearn for the Wolf Queen's downfall. Few of them had joined her, when she marched from Stony Shore, but once she had defeated Sansa's army in the field, the trickle of defections became a torrent. She judges that her enemy has three or four thousand within the walls, and a similar number have escaped to White Harbour, which is held by the new Lord Manderly. Naturally, before the siege begins in earnest, she offered to parley. Qarl, Ser Tristifer Botley, Maege Mormont, and Casporio wait with her, just outside arrow shot from the walls. At last, a postern opens, and Sansa walks out, accompanied by an old woman, a man dressed in black, and two soldiers. The Queen wears a uniform and breastplate. It is fifteen years since she last met Sansa, in the dragonpit. As she approaches, Yara realises just how striking she is. Very briefly, she feels a stab of lust, imagining the woman unclad, in her bed, before banishing such silly thoughts. Sansa is a deadly enemy, not a lover. She never puts her prisoners to such use, in any case. The old woman, she suspects, is Mother Mole, the Queen's seior, and the man in black is presumably, Beria. Both have grim reputations; neither can expect mercy at her hands.

Sansa's party halts, about ten feet distant. She speaks to Casporio first:-

"Do you expect me to greet you with open arms, Casporio?"

He grins, before replaying "I'd sooner you greeted me with open legs, your Grace."

She gives him a look that would curdle milk before remarking "Is the presence of this insect necessary?"

Yara nods at the man, and he steps back a few paces. Yara then comments "You must understand, your position is quite hopeless. I have scattered your army, and the country has risen against you. No major lord remains pledged to your cause, other than Manderly. I will besiege Winterfell for as long as it takes. Surrender to me now, and I promise to spare your life."

Sansa gives a shrill laugh. "Oh yes? I know what you did to my captured inquisitors. You'd burn me on a pyre in my own Godswood, unless you preferred to drown me in honour of your false god; no doubt after days of rape and torture beforehand." Yara winces.

Maege steps forward, before speaking earnestly "Not so, your Grace. By the Old Gods and the New, I swear we would keep you at Bear Island. I promise, we would treat you with all the respect that is due to a lady of your rank. My mother bears you no ill will at all. To us, your life would be as sacrosanct as that of any guest. "

"Your mother, who intends to rule as Viceroy in my place. Why should I believe the word of a traitor?"

"My family served yours faithfully for centuries, your Grace. You drove us, you drove your whole people to rebellion. But, that does not mean we hate you. And think of your daughter, too. Queen Yara has pledged that your daughter will be free to live as she pleases, if you should surrender. She may choose to live with you, or with any of her other relatives. We shall endow her with lands and holdfasts, sufficient for her to live in a manner that is fitting for her station in life. There is more. We have captured your husband, and his life is forfeit. But, if you surrender, we shall allow him to join you."

"My daughter is outside of your reach, and my husband must look to his own chances. Does your generosity extend towards my followers?"

Yara responds. "Those who are accused of serious crimes must go on trial. The rest may go free. You too must stand trial, although I guarantee, you will not face execution."

She sees Sansa go white with fury. "Trial? You presume to judge me! No mortal may do that. I am answerable only to the Gods for my actions! I am their Anointed; to judge me is to judge the Gods!"

For the first time, Yara wonders if Sansa is mad. She tries again "Queen Sansa" (it does no harm to be polite) "I will take any oath you wish to fulfil the terms of a surrender. You will be saving yourself, and your own people, a great deal of suffering. If I have to take Winterfell by storm, my men will kill and rape, and I cannot guarantee your safety. You have my word, however, that I will spare your daughter's life, regardless of your decision. Please, choose wisely; is it peace, or war?"

She stares intently into Sansa's cold blue eyes, her face an expressionless mask. She sighs, "Very well, Yara ", and she feels relief. "I will have peace. I will have peace, when you, your husband, and every traitor in your ranks are nailed to crosses on my walls. I will have peace when Bear Island and the Stony Shore are reduced to ashes. That is the peace I offer you Yara Greyjoy. Get you gone!"

Sansa and her party turn on their heels, and walk swiftly back to the castle. For the first time in her life, Yara actually admires the woman

**Note:**

Sophie Turner apparently wants to do a sequel, based on the reign of Queen Sansa. Perhaps I should pitch this to HBO. I'd rather like to see her delivering those last lines in this chapter. I've actually rather warmed to Dark Sansa while writing this.


	21. The Higher Mysteries

Sansa is closeted with Mother Mole and Beria in her solar, a couple of days after the parley. Winterfell is encircled, but the siege has yet to begin in earnest.

"We have enough food for six months, your Grace" comments Beria. "They will run short before we do. They will have no option but to attempt to storm the castle. Should they succeed," and here he smiles, "they will receive a warm welcome. Perhaps we can escape the explosion, but if not, I would sooner destroy my enemies along with myself, than fall into their hands."

"The pair of you can expect no mercy," replies the Queen. "And, I do not want mercy. Better to die with honour, than live in shame. Have you news of Catelyn?"

"We have heard nothing yet from White Harbour" he replies.

"Better she had stayed here with us, your Grace" comments Mother Mole. "There is power in the blood of kings and queens. The Lord will welcome the lives you send to him, when the wildfire is ignited, but the life of a Princess would have been a rare gift indeed. He would have blessed you."

Sansa shudders inwardly. "Stannis Baratheon burned his own daughter, a few miles from here. It availed him nothing."

"He served a false god. R'hllor is a fiction, as much as the Seven or the Drowned God. The true Lord rewards his followers"

"Which Lord?" she asks.

"He has many names your Grace. Your own ancestors sacrificed to him, before heart trees. In Qohor, they call him the Black Goat; in Asshai, the Crawling Chaos; to the Qartheen, he is the Whisperer in the Darkness; in Ibben, he is Nyarlathotep; here he is scarcely mentioned, as men prefer to believe he does not exist. But true memory never dies. He is the Lord of the Seven Hells. Pledge your soul to him, your Grace, and you will yet prosper."

My soul! . "I can't do that!"

"Why not, your Grace? Your deeds have already earned you a special place in his kingdom. Why not bargain for advantage, here on earth?".

She shivers. It is as if there is a chill in the room she has never felt before. She once had a septa's tongue ripped out, after the woman claimed she was going to hell. But, deep down, she fears the old seior is telling the truth. And would she have sacrificed Catelyn, had the girl remained here? Thank the gods she has sent her away, so it's not even an option.

She sees Beria staring at her intently, his keen dark eyes giving nothing away.

"I employ you for the purpose of divination, Mother. Nothing else."

The witch smiles. "Then, join me tonight your Grace. Let me tell your future. You have a victim, my lord?" she enquires of Beria. "Indeed" he replies. " A stable lad, caught trying to escape. He is guilty of treason, your Grace, and therefore his life is forfeit. But, we can employ him in other ways. He is kept in your deepest dungeon"

"As you wish, I shall join you there tonight". Mother Mole has proved invaluable in the past, revealing conspiracies, and naming traitors. But this is the first time that she has been invited to participate in her mysteries. There is little to do, before the siege truly begins. She retires to her study, reading and annotating state papers. She is both intrigued and frightened by what will happen tonight. She has never asked for her own future to be revealed, fearing what she would be told. But, there is nothing to be lost at this late stage. As it grows dark, a servant brings her a flagon of wine, and a pigeon pie for supper. She reads a short novel from Braavos, as she swallows her food. An absurdly romanticised account of the life of Daenerys Targaryen as it happens. She is pleased to see that her own role in the Dragon Queen's downfall is stressed. The author plainly hates Sansa, but that does not concern her . She imagines the woman's horror as she felt Jon's knife in her heart. _Poor, sweet simpleton Jon. Did you know, Daenerys, that the Imp and I were the ones who guided his hand? If only I could have been there to tell you, before your eyes closed for the last time. Jon worked it out, eventually._ She had realised at Winterfell, that Tyrion and Varys were ready to betray her, their souls black as pitch. They had deceived her at Meereen, claiming to be her supporters, but really seeking their own return to power. Still, they needed a pretext to overthrow her. The revelation of Jon's true parentage gave them that pretext. Never in her wildest dreams had she expected such a weapon to be placed in her hand. She had not hesitated to use it. When they had talked, after the meeting at the Dragonpit, Tyrion could scarcely contain his glee, as he recounted the lies he had told Jon, in order to get him to murder her. Naturally, she had congratulated him. A pity, really, that he screwed up so badly, in the end. She comes to the end of the story, clicking her tongue as she reads how Daenerys ascended into heaven to enter the Pantheon. It is true, though, that people worship her across the East.

At last, it is time to descend below. She puts on a fur coat, for it can be cold in the dungeons, and leaves her solar. Beria is waiting for her, and together, they descend into the depths. At length, they come to a door of black iron, without a grille. Beria knocks three times, and Mother Mole opens the door. There is a bluish light in the room, illuminated as it is by half a dozen black candles. The stable lad is suspended, naked, by his feet, from chains attached to the ceiling. He is bound and gagged, writhing fruitlessly. There are curious patterns on the floor of the dungeon, made of salt. Circles within circles. Pentangles within circles.

"Step carefully your Grace" cautions the witch. "Do not disturb the patterns" She hands Sansa a bronze bowl, herself picking up a silver sickle. "Collect his blood, when I open his throat, your Grace." She then starts chanting, in a tongue that Sansa has never heard before. Perhaps a language of the Children of the Forest, now long gone. She feels the temperature in the room grow steadily colder, and the hairs on the back of her neck rise. A chill wind gradually rises, and the candles burn far brighter. She feels a presence in the room with them, and shivers.

In the cell. Mother Mole has stopped chanting, and steps forward with the sickle, beckoning Sansa to follow. Sansa holds the bowl just above the man's chin, as the witch neatly draws it across his throat. His blood gushes, warm and rich, filling the bowl and overflowing it. Beria holds the man's body, as his struggles grow weaker. Eventually, he is still, his face and hair streaked with blood, which has gathered in a pool on the floor. She hands the bowl to the woman, who proceeds to drink from it, her eyes closed. At last she finishes, and opens her eyes. She smiles at Sansa, a red smile. "Your Grace, you will survive the coming siege, and enjoy long life".

Sansa closes her eyes with relief. Perhaps she will meet Catelyn and Arya again, after all.

**Notes:**

A Song of Ice and Fire is filled with Lovecraft references, so I added a couple of my own


	22. White Harbour

Arya senses that the city has fallen, even before she knows it, as she stares down from the battlements of the citadel, the New Castle, in the gathering twilight. One can tell. In the distance, she can hear the roars of triumph from the attackers, cries of dismay from the defenders. She knows what's coming as well. Grey Worm will always honour terms of surrender, but force him to take a city by storm, and things will go less well. Despite being guaranteed their lives, the new Lord, Balon Manderly, and his brother Robyn, refused to surrender. Even now, she thinks Lord Manderly will defend his citadel, to the end, until Winterfell is taken, or Sansa orders them to capitulate. For two weeks now, Grey Worm has kept up a ceaseless rain of incendiaries on the defenders, causing fires to break out right across the city, stone built though it is. She has helped out at various times, nursing the wounded, or joining the citizens in dousing the fires. She has seen her share of horrors in that fortnight; people burning in naphtha or wildfire, patients with their entrails hanging out, waiting for death. But then, she is used to horrors. No doubt the Unsullied will even now, behave in a civilised manner towards the city, but the rest of the attackers are likely to go on the rampage. White Harbour is one of the few places that has prospered under her sister's rule. The ironborn among the enemy will be eager to plunder it; the Northmen to take revenge on a city that was committed to her sister. In her mind's eye, she can see the soldiers pouring through the breach, sweeping the last defenders away. She imagines she can hear screams, as the soldiers reach the first houses. She is no enemy to Grey Worm, but the victorious soldiers won't know this. Fortunately, Lord Manderly and his brother, Robyn, agreed that Catelyn should leave the city, in the event that it was taken. They will sail for Braavos, on the Mandlerlys' own galley, moored in the Inner Harbour. Pretending a calmness she doesn't feel, she descends from the battlements, in search of the Princess. Bells have begun to toll across the city, confirming her suspicions. Soldiers are gathered in the castle's main courtyard, and already, townsfolk are hurrying through the entrance, to take refuge. She sees Balon Manderly arguing vociferously with Robyn, and his cousin Leywn.

_Catelyn's right. Her betrothed does look a horse_ she thinks, uncharitably. She joins them.

"Close the gates, Balon " demands Lewyn. "We can't feed them all."

"Damn, you Lewyn, they're my people! What do you think will happen to them, tonight, if we don't let them through? Arya, you need to take ship, now, with the Princess. You too Robyn, you're not staying here. You and Catelyn are our future."

Robyn starts to protest, only for Balon to cut him off, "That's an order Robyn! One of us at least has to survive." Arya spies Jeyne, hurrying forward with Catelyn's hand in her own.

"My lord, " she addresses him. "Lewyn is right. You'll starve if you try to stand siege in the citadel, with thousands of townsfolk. But, let them through, and then offer to surrender on terms. Grey Worm isn't a monster."

"What would your sister say to that, Arya? At least she can count on my loyalty, if no one else's. "

My sister is doomed. Your loyalty is now to your own people. Save them."

She turns to Jeyne and the girl. They have already mounted horses, which grooms have brought up for them. Arya vaults into the saddle and is joined by Robyn Manderly and two soldiers. They trot forward, through the oncoming crowd, and ride out of the castle entrance, heading downhill for the harbour. The streets are full of people, panicking. Some run for the castle, others for the harbour, others just mill about, unsure. She hears people cursing, praying, weeping. All equally useless. However, they ride on hard, their horses driving the panicked crowds aside. This is one of the better areas of the city, clean, well-lit, and free from robbers and looters; even in a situation like this, there are scum who would take advantage of their fellow citizens. As they approach the harbour, she can feel a rising wind. She can hear sounds that she would rather not hear; shouts and cries, the roar of flames, and the shattering of broken class. She can smell smoke, and already, embers are drifting past her. One snags in her hair, and she beats at it. She looks to her right and sees an orange glow, in the darkness, as buildings start to burn. They dodge a riderless horse that races out of a side street in front of them, as she curses it.

They ride up to the waterfront, crowded with folk, rich and poor alike, and dismount. All manner of craft are being launched, some of them dangerously overloaded. No doubt, there will be people making fortunes tonight, charging outrageous sums to desperate passengers. As she watches, one skiff sinks slowly under the surface, far too many people having leapt on board. Their screams are suddenly cut off, as the sea swallows the boat. Along with Manderly, and the soldiers, she draws her blade, not scrupling to use the flat to force a way through he crowds. The Manderlys' galley has started to set sail, the captain no doubt terrified of being overwhelmed by panicked townsfolk. It is now about thirty yards from the shore.

"Do you swim?" she yells at her comrades. They affirm they do, all apart from Jeyne. "I never learned to."

"Then take my hand. Take off your dress, and your boots. They'll only drag you down. " The poor woman is terrified as she undresses. Like the others, Arya, kicks off her boots, and then jumps into the sea, with Jeyne, relieved to see that Catelyn, and the others are already in the water, swimming for the galley, now only twenty yards off. She shuts her ears to the screams and cries, coming from the dying city, concentrating only on keeping Jeyne above the surface. But, Jeyne struggles, panicking now that they are out of their depth. She has wrapped her arm around Arya's neck, and they both go under. Arya had no time to draw breath before going under and quite instinctively, drives her fist as hard as she can into Jeyne's stomach to break her hold, freeing herself from the other woman's grasp. She rises again to the surface, treading water, as she inhales deeply. She looks for Jeyne, but sees nothing. She is not the only swimmer, she realises, as she circles around, trying to locate the woman below the surface in the darkness. But, there is no hope for her. She must ensure that Catelyn reaches safety. Sadly, she strikes out for the galley. The others have reached it now, being hauled in on ropes. She cries out to them, and another rope is flung down to her. As she reaches the deck, she sees Catelyn.

"Where's Jeyne?" asks the girl. "She never made it" Arya responds sadly.

"May the waters rest lightly upon her" remarks Robyn, sadly, and bowing his head, as Catelyn starts crying.

Arya cries too, for Jeyne, as she stares back at the doomed city, a blanket around her shoulders, even as they reach the open sea. The poor woman came so close to safety, only to perish at the last. Another death to add those on her conscience.


	23. Duel Underground

In the darkness, Yara hears the sound of the enemy; men with picks and shovels, scraping away at the earth, perhaps only a few feet now from breaking through. She waits for them with her own men, in the near-darkness, a single oil lamp providing a tiny light. The siege has now entered its fifth week. Her engines of war have battered the outer wall of the fortress, leaving a practical breach which she attempted to carry, a couple of days ago. The attack was a fiasco, with the defenders fighting like tigers, and inflicting hundreds of casualties. Her grudging respect for the Wolf Queen was only enhanced, as she saw her fighting among her men, clad in armour, like a shieldmaiden from one of her own people's sagas. Had matters turned out differently, perhaps the two of them could have been lovers, achieving great things together; after all, she had avenged Theon on the Beast of Bolton. She grins in the darkness as she imagines the man being eaten alive by his own hounds. But, Daenerys came between them both. The Dragon Queen had flirted with her a little, but never responded to her advances in the way she wanted. But Sansa hated the Targaryen, schemed against her, and protected the man who murdered her. That made her an enemy.

Alongside the bombardment, her men have been sapping towards the castle walls. The mine she waits in is less than a hundred feet away from them now. Grey Worm has left behind a corps of sappers and engineers who are familiar with siegecraft. He has sent her word of the fall of White Harbour. Lord Manderly had surrendered the citadel, in return for the lives of his people; he had refused to swear fealty to her, and it had been agreed that he would join the rest of his family in exile. Winterfell must be taken soon. The first cases of dysentery have appeared among the besiegers. Most of the North has now defected from Sansa, but even so, it would be a blow if she had to raise the siege. Despite her sappers' best efforts, their work could not be hidden from the defenders, who inevitably, have dug a counter-mine. Really, she shouldn't be risking her life down here; but, she can't show herself to be any less brave than the Wolf Queen.

A low rumble, and the wall of the mine begins to give way, earth cascading to the floor of the tunnel. She raises her shield, even as arrows and bolts whirr through the gap. Then, the enemy race through. One bearded giant takes a swing at her with axe, a blow that would take her head in a trice, did she not duck. Fortunately, he overbalances, and she drives her sword through his side. "Cunt" screams another, as she drives her shield into the man's face, before kicking him hard in the shin. He screams, and stumbles, even as Ser Tristifer drives the pommel of his sword, hard down on the man's head. "Bring down the shaft" she hears an enemy command, and men with picks start hacking at the props. Worse, some of the enemy have bottles of oil with lighted wicks, which they hurl down the shaft at her men. A couple of them scream as flames engulf them. She coughs on the smoke that roils through the tunnel, before being felled by a blow to the head. She rolls onto her back groggy, to see her attacker about to drive a long spear through her chest. There is nothing she can do now to protect herself, now, as she waits for death; and then, she is showered in blood, as the man's head vanishes, removed by Sigurd Harlaw's sword. The man grins as he drags her up by the hand. The tunnel is lit by flames, now, almost a vision of the hell that so many of the Greenlanders believe in.. "Run" she commands, Harlaw. "We'll burn alive otherwise." They jump through the flames, even as more bottles of oil explode among them, "Run for your lives!" she shouts again to her men, as they sprint back down towards the tunnel entrances. Behind her, she hears an ominous groaning and creaking, a sign that the mine is about to give way, as the props are dismantled and burn. A low rumble builds up behind her, as she sprints back towards safety, no more than fifty feet distant. The rumble becomes a roar as the ceiling collapses down on her, driving her to the ground, filling her mouth with dust_. Oh gods! Buried alive_ is her last thought, before the darkness takes her.

"A complete success" a smiling Beria reports to Sansa, in her study, an hour later. She had thought to lead her men in the fight underground, but the inquisitor had insisted it was far too dangerous, and he would lead the task himself. "We lost a couple of dozen men, but we destroyed their mine. It will take them at least a week to recover the lost ground. _A week. Does it make any difference in the end?_ The North is lost, however fiercely she defends Winterfell, even if she does escape with her life. She had received news of the fall of White Harbour by raven, from Robyn Manderly. She was touched to learn that one lord, at least, preferred exile to pledging fealty to the usurper. "You are my Queen, now and always" the man had written. "I yielded in order to save the city's inhabitants, but I will always remain pledged to your cause". The man had reported that, so far as he knew, Catelyn had escaped. _Thank the gods for that at least_! "You have my congratulations, my lord" she informs the man. "That's not all" he replies, "I have to reason to believe that disease has begun to take hold in the enemy's camp."

"That's all to the good, but I expect they'll be sending up reinforcements from White Harbour. But, reward the men who took part in the fight."

Yara gradually drifts back into consciousness. She lies on her back, feeling a heavy weight on her chest, in the blackness. If only she had died! Slow suffocation in the dark is far worse than being crushed. Gingerly, she works her right hand, down to her belt, through the earth. She breaths a sigh of relief, as she realises she yet has her dirk. She can still take her own life. On the whole, it has been a good life. She sailed half way across the world to find the Dragon Queen, and lived long enough to avenge her. Sansa's reign is at an end, however staunchly she defends her ancestral home. She has loved a score of men and women, and her husband will rule the Iron Islands and the North, until her oldest son comes of age. She hears a faint scraping. She stays her hand. Unmistakeably, the sound of digging. Her own men, or the enemy? She suddenly feels a draft of air, as the earth gives way behind her. Friendly arms drag her backwards, out of her tomb, even as she coughs and chokes, spitting out the dust and earth she has inhaled. It is now evening, as she emerges above ground, and walks to her lines, two of her rescuers, holding her under arms. She sinks to her knees, retching, as he reaches safety. Looking up, she sees Qarl staring down at her grimly. "Promise me, you will never be so fucking stupid again!" he snarls. It is a promise she will happily keep.

**Notes:**

I've always thought that underground fighting was the worst aspect of siege warfare.


	24. Braavos

It seems strange to return to the city, where she trained in the House of Black and White, half a lifetime ago. Their ship docked at the Ragman's harbour, two days' hence. She, Robyn, and Catelyn have taken lodgings in one of the better areas of the city. Braavos is almost unique among the world's cities in not being covered in shit. Really, she could even settle here; earn a living as a bodyguard, and forget about the North. As usual, the city is wrapped in fogs, chill and clammy. The three of them make their way to Venier's Wine Rooms, where they order a rack of lamb, and a fine Dornish red. Catelyn remains subdued, hardly surprising, in the light of the horrors she has had to endure. But, at least she is safe. They make desultory conversation, over dinner. However, their meal is about to be interrupted.

A slim, handsome, man in his thirties, dressed in navy like most of the elite of Braavos, approaches their table, and bows, before speaking.

"Signor, Signorine, the Sealord of Braavos, and the Council of Six pay their compliments. They would esteem it greatly if you were to attend them directly."

A Guardian of the Night; the secret police of Braavos are feared the world over, more so even than her sister's Inquisition. At least they are more polite. She looks around the room, guessing that at least half a dozen Guardians are present, studying the party with interest. Fighting them would be pointless; they include graduates of the House of Black and White among their number.

Robyn looks at her, and she nods, before he replies. "I am happy to be of service to their Excellencies." The Guardian smiles and bows, in acknowledgement.

They walk directly past the House of Black and White. She has guessed right, as they are surrounded by Guardians who left the wine shop with them. Night has fallen, giving a sombre air to the proceedings. She wonders what will happen to them. Nothing too bad she hopes. The Guardians can be far more brutal than this. Tonight, they have been positively civilised. They reach the main canal, a slim bridge leading to the Sealord's Palace, a vast affair of state rooms, offices, dungeons, and gardens; even a menagerie, not that she ever got to see it when she lived here. They are led through the entrance, into a vast ante-chamber, decorated with frescoes of remarkable beauty/

"Please wait" the man tells them. He knocks three times, on a small side door, and then disappears through it. They wait for perhaps half an hour in the ante chamber, in silence, until the man returns, and bids them follow. They enter a smaller chamber, illuminated with candles. This is the very heart of the Serene Republic, a room from which people will, on occasion, emerge only to be put do death. She hopes she is not to be one of them. The three of them are seated at one end of a long table. At the other, is the Sealord himself, a man of indeterminate age, bald as an egg. An air of chill menace radiates from him. On each side of the table sit men who are robed and masked, the Council of Six, charged with the security of Braavos. Their identity is a closely guarded secret. Also present, are several scribes and guards.

"My Lord and Ladies" begins the Sealord, " we have heard of the fall of White Harbour. We understand that your brother is safe, my lord" he addresses Robyn. "He yielded the citadel, in return for his life and those of his people. A wise decision Should he seek asylum in the Republic, it will be granted, provided he plays no further part in Northern politics.".

"As to you Lady Stark, you are doubtless aware that your sister's reign is at an end. To the best of my knowledge, Winterfell remains untaken, but its fall cannot be long delayed. Let me make very plain that your sister would not be granted asylum by us, should she apply for it. We consider her conduct as Queen in the North to be ….unethical in the extreme." They would. This city was founded by freed slaves, and my sister has shipped thousands abroad. " I do not consider I am breaching a major confidence, when I say that tomorrow, the Signoria will recognise Yara Greyjoy as Queen in the North; nor that we see major commercial advantage to establishing close relations with her. As you might imagine, our navy and merchant marine have an insatiable appetite for timber and pitch, commodities the North possesses in abundance."

"As to your position, here, you must be aware that you are persona non grata in this city. The House of Black and White does not remember your activities here fondly, all those years ago. There are those who would wish an example to be made of you, but that …..would not be politic, in my opinion. A fast ship to Eastwatch is all that I can offer you."

_Better than a cut throat, and a body found floating in the Grand Canal _

"I suppose a woman who is lost in the desert..." "must accept whatever water she is offered", he finishes for her.

"What of my niece?" asks Arya, turning to Catelyn, Understandably, the girl looks very frightened. The Council Chamber, and its Sealord, are equally intimidating."

"What indeed, of your niece? The Republic does not hold you responsible, Lady Catelyn, for your mother's misdemeanours. I believe you are thirteen years of age?"

"I am, your Excellency."

"And, you are betrothed to this gentleman.?"

"My mother arranged the betrothal, your Excellency."

"I understand. You will remain a ward of the Republic, until you reach the age of eighteen. At that age, you will be free to settle here, or return to the North if you should prefer. I understand that Yara Greyjoy has guaranteed your life. If you wish to marry this gentleman, at that age, then you will of course be free to do so. But, you will not be compelled. You will be lodged in this Palace, and will be educated with other children of high birth."

"Your Excellency" she replies firmly. "I wish to remain with my auntie".

"I understand, but believe me, while the new Queen has guaranteed your safety, there will be still be those who are seeking vengeance on your family. You will be safer here than anywhere else in the world."

"His Excellency is correct," Arya sadly tells her. "Life here will be far better for you than life at Castle Black." The Sealord is a shrewd man. Who knows what reversals of fortune will occur in the North over the next few years? Catelyn as a client Queen would suit Braavos just as well as Yara Greyjoy. And, she will at least be well-guarded, during her stay here. The Braavosi are ruthless, but not wantonly cruel. They will not harm a child.

"My lord" he addresses Manderly. "As with your brother, we will grant you asylum, provided you play no further part in Northern politics. Should you make your peace with the Queen, then you are of course free to return to White Harbour. I understand you have funds deposited with the Iron Bank?"

"I have, your Excellency".

"Good. Then I wish you all health and great joy. That concludes our business together. Lady Stark, your ship will set sail in two days' time."

**Notes:**

Braavos is based upon the Republic of Venice. The Council of Six was the Venetian security council, and the Signoria the main law-making body. Venice's secret police had a formidable reputation.


	25. In At the Death

"I want them dead, the traitors" remarks the Queen. She paces her throne room, Beria and Mother Mole by her side. She wears a thick wool gambeson, and leather breeches and boots. Over them, she has donned a steel cuirass and backplate, designed for a woman, rerebraces and cuisses. Her hair is bound up, under a steel half-helm surmounted by a gold coronet. One her left hip is her sword, on her right, a dirk. Even if she dies today, she will take her enemies with her. She smiles as she remembers the enemies she has destroyed; the Bastard of Bolton, Daenerys Targaryen, Umber, Karstark, Ryswell, all the traitors who rebelled over the years. If the Gods are good, she will add Yara Greyjoy to their number.

"They are readying for the assault" replies Beria. "I expect them to carry the outer walls. We shall "accidentally" allow them to enter the Keep. Then the trap will be sprung. The fuses are primed."

"Good. Let her be Queen over cooked meat and charred bones. If she lives".

"Your Grace will survive this battle" reiterates Mother Mole. Can she believe her? It's a nice idea, but even if she dies, she will still leap laughing into her grave, knowing what horror she has wrought on her enemies. She stops, to pour herself a glass of wine, which she drains in one go. She is full of nervous excitement now. The siege has entered its ninth week. Two mines have brought down a huge section of the outer walls. Her enemies will assault the palace today. The defenders now number a little over two thousand, although she believes far heavier casualties have been inflicted on the attackers. Every day, she looks out, and sees smoke drifting up from enemy lines as bodies are burned, victims of disease. She pours a fresh glass of wine, and resumes her progress, waiting for her moment. She walks to a balcony, overlooking Winterfell's main courtyard. She can see for herself the breach in the walls, and the thousands of enemy soldiers, readying for the assault. Behind the breach, her own men have constructed makeshift barricades from the rubble. Over a thousand await the assault, armed to the teeth, direwolf banners still flying proudly among them. Ballistae and siphons containing naptha and quicklime are primed, ready to be unleashed on the attackers.

She steps back inside, and then descends to the courtyard. Outside, she greets her men, shaking hands, kissing one blushing young ensign on the lips, and exchanging pleasantries. Her willingness to fight alongside them, in earlier assaults, has certainly inspired them to great efforts. If nothing else, the Greyjoy will pay a terrible price for victory. She wonders how many of them will be left alive by the end of today. It is no matter. Their duty is to die for their Queen and country. It makes no difference if they die at the hands of the enemy, or by her own wildfire. She will not fight alongside them today. She has her separate task to perform.

Yara observes the enemy through her spy glass. Eight thousand men are readying to storm the breach. They should be enough, although losses will be heavy.

"Today's the big day your Grace" says Casporio, grinning at Yara. "Will you be leading the attack?"

"Grey Worm is. I promised my husband not to. I presume you'll be keeping out of harm's way?"

"Of course, your Grace, Although, quite a few of my lads have volunteered to be part of the forlorn hope"

"That seems out of character, wouldn't you say?"

"It's the pick of the plunder, they're after. Those eggs that she likes to collect. They'll fetch a pretty price. They'll risk their lives for a fortune. " Then, "you're still sure you want her taken alive?"

"If possible.' "Why? Surely, it's best all round, if someone just runs her through. Unless...you want to bed her?", he says grinning.

Does she? Is lust clouding her judgement? The thought of Sansa in her bed is an alluring one. " I doubt if she'd be up for that. But, I want her put on trial. I want all the Northern lords present to condemn her. I want her to see the ruin of everything she's built. But, on no account do I want the world to think that a Queen can be put to death."

"As you wish, your Grace" replies Casporio, looking sceptical.

Maege Mormont waits with the surviving men of Bear Island, hardly more than a hundred. In view of their losses so far, they will only enter the breach once it has been carried. Gods, what a waste! Her mother will be made Viceroy, but a terrible price has been paid by her people. Yet, Sansa left them all no choice. Why couldn't she be content to rule the North under the Dragon Queen? Thousands of lives, perhaps tens of thousands, would have been saved. The North has been bled white over the past twenty years. Will they ever recover? Her heart in her mouth, she waits for the attack to begin.

Grey Worm waits for the moment. He will lead the forlorn hope, the first wave of soldiers who bear the brunt of the defenders' fire. There are five hundred of them. Two hundred are Unsullied, volunteers he brought with him, back from White Harbour. The rest of the Unsullied remain at that city, resting after the battering they have taken in the war. The remaining three hundred are a mix of Ironborn and Northerners, all promised rich reward should they survive, to be paid to their families should they be killed. He knows there is every likelihood he will die today, but at least he will have accomplished his revenge, on the last, and most dangerous of the Dragon Queen's enemies. He stares intently at the defenders, three hundred yards away. The walls may have been breached, but the rubble will still make a formidable obstacle. The front ranks carry pavisses, large wicker shields which will provide some protection from the enemy's bolts. He guesses they will have to run the gauntlet of fire as well. Behind the forlorn hope are massed hundreds of archers, who will keep up a brisk fire on the defenders, over the heads of his own men as they race towards the breach. Their own ballistae will also pour rocks and bolts into the enemy. At last, everything is ready. He turns to stare at Yara Greyjoy in the background. She raises her hand in salute, and he blows a whistle. He and his men start jog trotting towards the breach. Within seconds, they will have entered hell itself.

**Notes:**

As mentioned in The Queen's Portrait, Sansa likes to collect silver, gold, and platinum jewelled eggs, similar to those produced by Carl Febarge for the Russian Imperial Family.


	26. Judgement at Winterfell

Sansa watches the enemy charge towards the breach from the balcony of her throne room. Her men release a storm of bolts, and rocks, gutting the attackers, even as jets of naptha turn them into piles of screaming charcoal. Time to act. She leaves the room, and descends rapidly to the crypts, using the same little-frequented stairwell that Wolkan did, all those weeks ago. At the bottom, she carefully unlocks the door and steps through into the blackness. She carries a lighted taper, which gives a little light. In truth, she knows these chambers like the back of her hand. Finally, she reaches the rooms she is seeking. Barrels of wildfire, naptha, oil, saltpetre, and other incendiaries are stacked to the ceilings, giving off a heady scent. The crypts run under the castle courtyard too, so she can expect death to be inflicted even on those enemies who have not reached the Keep. The fuses are primed, just as Beria promised. Carefully, she lights each one; they will burn slowly, taking perhaps an hour before the flame reaches the wildfire. She wonders whether she should remain here. Death at least would be instantaneous. It would be preferable to death at the hands of Yara Greyjoy, or far worse, being granted mercy by the usurping bitch. But no, she must observe the fight. If, by some miracle, her men do repel the attackers, well, she can always run back down here to extinguish the fuses. Satisfied, she leaves the crypt, and returns upstairs. She resumes watching the fight from the balcony. The enemy have reached the breach, where a vicious battle is now underway.

_Hell on earth_ thinks Grey Worm as he jogs forward. Men are falling all around him, as he runs, going down to the bolts and rocks of the defenders. Amazingly, he is unharmed, less than fifty yards from the breach. He dodges the man in front, screaming hideously, as he is caught in a spray of liquid fire, and turned into a living torch. The man to his right folds over, choking and gurgling over the crossbow bolt in his throat. A violent blow to his helm leaves Grey Worm seeing stars, even as he forces his legs forward. _Too old for this, too old_ . This has to be his last fight, he thinks, as his head gradually clears. He reaches the breach, clambering over the rubble with the survivors of the attack. One man vaults up onto the barricade that the defenders have built, only to have his legs chopped from under him. Another, and another. Men spring up all along the barricade, being cut down again and again, but some make it to the other side. He braces himself, and clambers to the top, expecting a pike through the guts, but he somehow makes it down to the other side, after all. There is no skill in this type of fight, simply unrestrained savagery. One Northerner aims a vicious blow at this head, with an axe, which he ducks, driving his sword through the man's midriff. He feels a sudden wave of agony in his left thigh. Somehow, a bolt penetrated his armour to lodge there. Gods, he can barely limp! He blocks a sword thrust from one snarling giant, only for his left leg to collapse under him. On the ground, he feels the blows raining down on him, until he feels no more.

Yara feels a surge of triumph, as fresh waves of her men reach the breach. She is in the middle of her army, as it pours through, Hundreds of her men have cut down, but now they sweep the defenders away by sheer weight of numbers. Finally, she clambers over the barricade, taking stock of the situation. Right across the courtyard, men are fighting bitterly, some of them rolling on the ground, locked in each others' arms. She jumps down, as one of the Northmen on the ground drives his dagger through the visor of the man beneath him. Instinctively, she takes the man's head from his shoulders. She slips in a pool of blood, landing on her arse, A screaming, bearded maniac, mouth full of rotten teeth, swings his axe at her chest, only to collapse as a war hammer caves the back of his head in. Sir Tristifer grins down at her, raising her to her feet. She senses, before she sees, that the enemy have broken, The weight of numbers is simply too great. "The Keep", she screams "to the Keep". By the Drowned God below! An open, unguarded postern, leading through the inner wall surrounding the Keep! "Follow me" she screams. They almost block the postern, in their eagerness to force their way through, but now she's in, racing for the entrance to the Keep. A group of Northmen flee before them, desperate no doubt to reach the Keep, and bolt it behind them. She draws a hand axe from her belt, and hurls it as hard she can, into the back of one of the running men. He screams and collapses to the ground. Dozens of her men are hurling handaxes at the Northerners, before swarming over them. She pelts up the steps to the Keep, and tears through the entrance, followed by her men. The day is hers!

Maege Mormont has had her fill of battle. She sees Yara taking the steps to the Keep, two at a time, before vanishing through the entrance. She is relieved that her men have only taken light losses, but she feels nothing but sadness at the outcome. She would have wanted nothing more than for her family to serve the Starks of Winterfell, but Sansa made that impossible. Despite everything, she still hopes the Queen's life will be spared. She walks slowly up the steps, and enters the Keep, and for a moment, she stares amazed at the atrium. It really is another world. Rich tapestries hang from the walls, along with costly paintings, and lamps in silver gilt sconces. But not for long. Soldiers are slashing the tapestries and paintings, hacking the lamps, desperate to loot the precious metal. Cries and crashes ring out. And, then suddenly, a wild screaming carries from a room to the left. She runs through into an ante-chamber. One young woman, perhaps a servant, has been stripped by half a dozen brutes, about to be gang-raped. One of them has clambered on top of her, and quite instinctively, she drives her sword through his back. He shrieks, spewing blood over his terrified victim. His fellows shout with rage, drawing their swords in turn, but she has a score of men with her. "Get the fuck out of here!" she snarls, and they slink sheepishly from the room. The woman on the ground is sobbing, even as she hands her clothes back to her. "Stay with me" she insists. "You'll be safe." She knows that far worse will happen today. She has done her best, and her best is nowhere near good enough.

Sansa hears the cries of her victorious enemies from the throne room. She has no idea what has become of Mother Mole or Beria. Both of them knew the risks, and both must take their chances. She feels completely calm. All her life, she has done her best to honour the memory of Father, Mother, and Robb, to be worthy of her ancestors. She walks to the throne, climbs the steps up to it, and sits down, awaiting her enemies, her sword drawn, and resting across her knees. Two of her Queensguard come flying through the entrance, trying too late to bar the heavy teak doors. They are both cut down as they try to slam them shut. And then, she sees her worst enemy surrounded by her men.

Yara grins. "Sansa Stark, her very self. And, all on her own"

"The Queen in the North, to you". She feels no fear, almost relief, now.

"I see no Queen where you are sitting. Your reign is over. "

"Then I shall make you see. " Sansa stands, raising her sword in salute. "You will never take me alive, Yara Greyjoy".

"Oh, but I shall. I'm going to try you for your crimes, before the North. I want to make you face the judgement of your own people"

"There will certainly be a judgement here today, Yara, on that you may depend."

Sansa descends nimbly from the steps under the throne, and darts forward, sword in hand, intending to fight. There is low rumble, then a loud roar, and suddenly the world erupts in green flame.


	27. The Queen's Revenge

_She wanders through the crypts of Winterfell. Too well does she know them. Lit with an eerie blue light, she can see her way well enough. The tombs are opened. She knows she shouldn't, but still she peers inside, drawn unwilling. And, there she sees them. Her victims. The Dragon Queen; the men and women done to death in her camps and torture chambers; the people she sold into slavery; everyone who suffered in her wars and persecutions. So many of them. All of them staring up at her, pointing at her, accusing. So many of them. Is this what hell is, having to confront the people you wronged in life? Will she get the chance to confront those who wronged her? But, there is worse. She walks up to the tomb of her own aunt, Lyanna. And, there are her own family. Condemning her with the others. _

_"I was once so proud of you. I loved you. My beautiful, clever, kind, daughter. Now, I have nothing but contempt for you." Her own mother, staring coldly down at her. _

_"Mother please! Don't judge me. Everything I did, I did for our family. I tried to be worthy of you. I tried to be worthy of our ancestors. I fought for the North. I brought back our freedom, after three hundred years. " _

_"Freedom? Is that you call it? Selling children as slaves? Abusing your own subjects?" _

_"I did what I must. The strong must lead, and the weak must follow. Everyone who is not one of us is an enemy!" _

_"Is that what I taught you?" her father asks gruffly. "I think you learned that from another. You were her most apt pupil, I reckon. Cersei killed everything that was good about you. That was never our way." _

_"Your honour got you killed, father! You too Mother, and you, Robb. "_

_"Death comes to us all, sister. What matters is how we live. Are you proud of the way you have lived?" _

_"Of course not. But, what choice did I have? I wanted to rule by love, but they never gave me the chance. They loved you, but they always hated me. I never wanted any of this. You were meant to rule the North, not I. They would have followed you willingly, but all they gave me was scorn and betrayal"_

_"Please, " she begs them "I'm still your family. " They stare back at her coldly. She feels rising anger now, in place of guilt. "Look at you, judging me! How do you think we won the North? By spreading sweetness and light? No, we brought them fire and sword. We slaughtered the Children of the Forest. We raped the daughters of our enemies. We sacrificed them to weirwoods. Don't blame me for doing exactly what our ancestors would have done in my place; what you would have done in my place! There's no moral high ground, here." They fade from view._

_"There's always a choice, sister" replies her brother sadly. "You made yours. You chose to be a murderer, a slaver, a betrayer, an oath breaker."_

Gradually, she drifts back into consciousness. Something is pattering lightly on her face. She opens her eyes to the heavens, half the roof gone, she realises. It is nightfall now, moonlit, and raining steadily. Alive! Perhaps the Gods favour her after all. Then she screams in pain. Hesitantly, she looks at her body. She winces, as she sees a shard of glass embedded in her right forearm. Far worse, her left leg is twisted round at an impossible angle. All around her are cries and groans of injured men. She realises that she is lying on her back, atop a pile of rubble, the floor of the throne room having collapsed beneath her. Gingerly, she raises her forearm, and pulls out the shard, hissing with pain. She draws out a kerchief, and ties it round her arm, to staunch the bleeding. Time to get out. The walls of the Keep mostly stand, as far she can see, but surely they or the roof might collapse at any time. She turns on her front, crawling slowly down the pile of rubble, dragging her useless leg behind her. She retches as a wave of nausea overcomes her, the pain from her leg briefly unendurable. At last, she reaches the ground, and keeps crawling onwards.

And then she sees him. His hair and half his face are burned away, but she would still recognise Casporio the Cunt in the moonlight, anywhere. He's still alive, just about, breathing hoarsely. The Gods are good, after all. She grins, drawing her dagger with her right hand despite the cut. Gently, she shakes him , and he stirs. "Casporio" she whispers softly, "wake up, it's me." He opens his eyes, dazed, but then horrified as she sees who it is. "I promised myself, when you betrayed me, my face would be the last thing you ever saw." Feebly, he tries to struggle, but it is useless. Slowly, ever so slowly, she presses her dirk into the man's left eye, feeling the eyeball give a satisfying pop! before pressing down into his brain. There is a sudden stench as his bowels open, and then he falls still. Few deaths have ever given her such pleasure. She replaces the knife in its sheath. She reaches down, and finds the man still has his sword. Her own has disappeared. Good! She'll use it as a crutch, till she finds something better. She draws it, and then takes it in her left hand. Gritting her teeth against the pain, she presses the point into the ground, and then raises herself. Time to take stock of her surroundings. People are moving about, half of them too shocked and dazed to be aware of their surroundings, it appears. She hobbles forward, supporting her weight on the sword. Maybe she can get away in the confusion. There must be a horse to be had, somewhere. She wonders how she could mount it, but time to cross that bridge in due course.

She reaches the entrance to the Keep. No chance of hobbling down that flight of steps. She'll slide down on her backside. Gradually she descends, before raising herself at the bottom. She is soaked to the skin now, as the rain falls harder. With the aid of the sword, she raises herself. And, then feels the point of a sword at her neck.

"Leaving so soon, your Grace?" says a woman's voice.

Slowly, very slowly she turns to see who it is. Maege Mormont. She shrugs. "Well played, Maege. Make an end. Your mother will be Viceroy of the North. "

"Regent, I should think. I don't think either Yara or her husband survived your stunt. My mother will rule until their oldest boy comes of age."

"Well then, do what you have to do. As you can see, I'm not in much shape to put up a fight."

Maege gives a grim smile. "I felt sorry for you. So did my mother. I wanted to spare you. Now I want to kill you. But, that would be too easy. Far better than you deserve."

"It would hardly be an auspicious start to your mother's reign if you were to torture her predecessor to death." Keep her talking. Slowly, very slowly, she reaches for the dagger at her hip.

"I won't be doing the torturing. Yara was right. I want you to witness the ruin of everything you hold dear. I want you to face your victims. Then we'll hand you over to them. Let them deal with you as you deserve."

Sansa draws the dagger swiftly, only to scream as Maege cuts swiftly down, her blade slicing through her right wrist. " She stares in astonishment at her hand, lying on the ground, still clutching the dagger, before she screams again, and falls to the ground.

"This woman is a dangerous and desperate criminal" she hears Maege command. "Bind her wounded wrist, and keep her alive for trial. " Then she knows no more


	28. The Prisoner in the Tower

"So what will you do with her?" Maege asks her mother, Alysanne. They sit together in the solar at the New Castle, in White Harbour, some weeks after the fall of Winterfell. Sansa is imprisoned elsewhere in the castle, awaiting trial.

"Burn her in wildfire. That's what my men want," urges Ser Tristifer Botley, the highest ranking ironborn left alive. Maege sees her mother wince.

"She was a Queen and she is a Stark. If she has to die, then it will be done decently. Do you both understand? I'm not handing her over to her victims, either, Maege. You know they'd rape her and torture her to death. The Smallfolk would lose all respect for us if they knew that a woman of high birth could be treated in such a manner. Frankly, I'm astonished you could propose such a thing."

Maege accepts the rebuke. "I'm sorry Mother. I was livid when I saw what she did at Winterfell. I agree with you.

"She killed our Queen and her husband" retorts Ser Tristifer.

"She did. In battle. I held the utmost respect for Queen Yara, but Sansa could just as easily have died at the end of an ironborn sword or bolt or been burned by an incendiary. Rest assured, she will be placed on trial as we agreed. And, I will keep every vow of fealty I have made to House Greyjoy. Queen Yara's eldest, Roderick, will be crowned King in the North, and will take power on his sixteenth birthday. Now, I have summoned Lord Commander Snow from Castle Black, I fear that he hates his sister, but I consider it important that he should give us his opinion. He also has valuable evidence to give at her trial."

"What will you do with Jon Snow, give him a formal pardon? Neither his brother nor his sister ever did?", asks Maege.

"Of course they didn't. They always thought he'd be a threat to their crowns if he left the Wall. How little they know him. I'll give him a pardon if asks for one, but I suspect he doesn't want to be pardoned. By all accounts, he hates himself for what he did. He won't even take his own life; he views his very existence as a punishment. Now, Maege, go to Sansa, and inform her that she is to be tried. Be gentle about it."

Maege leaves the room, and descends to the courtyard. She walks to the tower where Sansa is held prisoner. The guards salute her, and she climbs the staircase to her chamber. "I am commanded to see the Lady Sansa, " she informs the guards, and one of them knocks, before opening the door. The chamber is comfortably furnished, spacious and clean. It has a view over the sea. Sansa sits facing her, wearing a long-sleaved purple gown, which hides the stump of her right arm. Her left leg is encased in plaster.

"My Lady " Maege curtseys before her.

"I believe the correct form of address is Your Grace" replies Sansa.

"Your reign is at an end, my Lady. But, my mother wishes you to be treated with every courtesy."

"Oh, spare me your mother's hypocrisy! You know and I know that I have been brought here to be butchered. Will it be in public, before a mob, or else a quiet murder one night? Telling the world that I caught a "chill" or "committed suicide"."

"You are to be placed on trial. If you are found guilty, it shall be for my mother to determine your fate, after discussion with the lords of the North. I promise that you will not suffer."

"You wanted me to handed over to my enemies to be torn to pieces"

"I spoke in anger. I apologise."

"Apology accepted. " Sansa sighs. "Not that it matters. Death will actually be a mercy. You die a heroine, or you live to be reviled. I should have died in Kings Landing, after Joffrey was poisoned. A terrible way to go, being burned at the stake, but I'd be remembered as a martyr now, in the North. Wine?" Maege nods. Sansa pours for them both, from a flagon placed on her desk. "I should not have insulted your mother. That was unjust. I am sorry. She has treated me well, as her prisoner. Better than I would ever have treated her. So, what are the charges against me?"

"Many charges of murder and enslavement. And...oathbreaking. " Sansa's eyebrows rise at that last.

"Oathbreaking? What oaths have I broken?...oh yes, I see. I'm sure I have my dear cousin Lord Snow to thank for that . I should have known that he'd want his pound of flesh at the end. Well, I can answer him at least. As to the other charges, would you please ask your mother to allow me access, under guard, to the castle library. There will be books that are relevant to my case. And, I need plenty of paper, and writing implements. "

"Of course, my Lady". Maege rises to leave. "I shall visit you each day, to see if there is anything you require."

"Maege," Sansa says softly, "I wanted to kill you, at Winterfell. I said many harsh things at the parley before the siege. Things that I regret saying. I would take them back if I could. There is so much that I regret in my life. Stay with me a while if you would. "

"I cut off your hand, my Lady, it's the least I can do." She sits back down on the chair facing Sansa.

"Your family will be the most powerful now, in the North. You will rule, after your mother?"

"Yes, though as head of House Mormont, not as Regent. In due course, Roderick Greyjoy will rule the North as King. "

Sansa winces, before falling silent for a while. Then, "At least, your family had the courage to declare against me openly. Most of the rest pretended loyalty, but turned on me, as soon as the battle was lost. There is no such thing as "Northern honour", Maege. Half the lords declared for Ramsay Bolton, before we brought them to heel. Tell your mother to remember that, and rule them with an iron hand, is my advice."

"I think you relied too much on the iron hand, my Lady."

Sansa ponders awhile, and they make small talk, before Maege bids her goodbye. Over the next month, they meet regularly, as she escorts Sansa to the castle library, where she works on her defence. A week before the trial begins , they are dining in Sansa's chambers.

"I have received word that my sister returned to Castle Black, and my daughter is now a ward of Braavos. Sadly, Lady Poole did not escape. She was a follower of the Seven. Would your mother be so kind as to ask the castle Septon to hold a memorial service for her? She was my oldest friend, as well as my Lady in Waiting."

"It's the least we can do."

"Would your mother allow my daughter to return to the North, if she wished? "

"Yes, if she took an oath of fealty to King Roderick. But, I think she's safest where she is for the time being. "

"I agree."

"Lord Commander Snow arrived today. Do you wish to see him."

"Never" she snaps. "I shall have to face him at trial, but our relationship ended years ago. "

"I think that's desperately sad. You and he fought to regain Winterfell from the Beast, and stood together against the Dead,"

"A vile woman came between us. She seduced him, corrupted him, made him throw away his destiny as ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. I forced him to do his duty, and he hated me for it".

She suspects Lord Snow has a very different tale to tell, but she does not venture that opinion. They spend the rest of the meal in companionable silence, watching as the Sun sets over the Sea.


	29. The Trial Part One

Jon is already seated with the Northern lords, in the Great Hall, when the woman who was once his sister enters, under guard. She limps slightly, and walks with the aid of a cane. He understands that her leg was badly broken, when Winterfell was taken. Arya sits beside him. She has visited Sansa in her chambers and has told him she is in good spirits. He wonders how he will react if she is sentenced to execution. Will he feel joy, relief, sadness, or perhaps, nothing at all? He watches her take her seat. Alysanne Mormont and a panel of lords will conduct the trial. Dozens of witnesses are present in the Hall, ready to give evidence against her.

The charges are outlined by Beric Dustin, a legal scholar. To Jon, they seem pretty damning. The murder of prisoners in Sansa's internment camps; the murder of the brother of Lord Glover; the murder of the Smallfolk during the course of her wars; the sale of men, women, and children into slavery. And finally, oathbreaking. In the Godswood, at Winterfell, the charge that he will be giving evidence on. He steals glances at Sansa from time to time, who appears quite unmoved. Dustin ends, after a couple of hours, and she slowly rises to her feet, to address the court.

"Lady Mormont, Gentlemen of this court, a most pernicious idea has taken root. I appear before you, in the presence of my enemies, entirely helpless. There is a general view that my guilt has already been decided upon, and that these proceedings are, in a sense superfluous. That the only issue that remains to be determined is the manner of my execution. I believe that I can prove my innocence of each and every one of the charges laid against me, save one. I acknowledge that I am guilty of breaking an oath that I swore before a Heart Tree. I believe that my action was justified, for reasons that I shall outline in due course. If, at the end of this trial, you find me guilty and condemn me to death, well, I shall remain satisfied that I am innocent, but all the world shall know that my sentence was a thing already determined." There is some angry muttering among the onlookers. Arya looks uncomfortable, and Jon feels a stab of fury. Sansa will lie to the bitter end. Far better she confess to her crimes, and beg the court for mercy!

She continues. "Before responding to the charges in detail, I must first submit that the majority of them must be dismissed from the outset. They relate to actions which I am alleged to have carried out in my capacity as Queen in the North. No sovereign can be tried for actions which she has carried out in her capacity as sovereign. She is answerable to the Gods alone for her actions in this world. That is the law across all nations." Sansa spends the next hour outlining this part of her defence, citing one precedent after another. Despite his anger, Jon can't deny, she is a formidable speaker when she puts her mind to it. She goes on, to plead an alternative defence, that if she can be held liable for her actions as Queen, then they were justified as acts of war, punishment of crime, and due to necessity. "In war, all laws are silent" she concludes.

Before the Court adjourns, there is time to question the first witness, the commandant of Garstang as it happens. He is already under sentence of death for the murder of prisoners. Perhaps his sentence will be commuted, Jon thinks. Dustin leads him through his evidence, that yes, he murdered prisoners, and yes, he was obeying the Queen's orders. Sansa rises to cross-examine him.

"You say that you murdered prisoners on my orders?"

"That is correct, Your Gr...my Lady."

"When did I give you those orders"?

"Those orders were given by Inspector General Norrey. He informed me that they came from yourself."

"And is Norrey present to confirm that I gave him such orders?"

The commandant looks up confused. One of the judges speaks "He's missing, presumed dead."

"Ah, so what you are saying is that Norrey, who is not present to give evidence on this point, gave you orders that the prisoners should be executed. You then say, that he told you that those orders came from me?"

"That is correct."

"And did you check that I had given such orders?"

"Of course not".

"It never occurred to you that I never gave such orders?"

"Who else would have given them?"

"I have no idea. I do know that you are under sentence of death. That perhaps you hope to save your own skin by attempting to blame me for acts of murder which *you* carried out, on your own initiative. Lady Mormont, my lords" she addresses the judges again. "I submit that I have no case to answer on this point. I never gave orders for the execution of prisoners. It is against all reason and justice that I should be condemned on the basis of hearsay evidence, given by a man who is desperate to escape a death sentence. Neither Norrey, nor Beria, are present to corroborate this man's evidence. How can I be condemned for this man's crimes, when there is no evidence that I ordered them?" There is more angry muttering around the Hall. But, Alysanne is quite firm.

"Be silent, or this Hall will be cleared. This is a court of law, not a lynch mob. Lady Sansa, we shall retire and consider your arguments. But, bear in mind, there are a great many more charges that have been preferred against you.

"Lady Mormont, I am willing to take my chances in Court, as always?"

Jon dines with Arya. "She's lying isn't she?' he asks.

"Yes" Arya replies. "I know she gave those orders. It was common knowledge at Winterfell. But, I'll bet there's nothing in writing. And, the people she gave the orders to are dead or in hiding."

"Will you give evidence against her?" Arya looks horrified. "I can't condemn her to death".

"You condemned my Aunt to death."

"I feel nothing but shame for my actions, Jon, if that means anything after all these years. But, I can't send Sansa to the block, or the stake. I just can't."

"They won't burn her. The worst she faces is death by the sword. "

"And, is that what you want Jon? To see my sister beheaded? The woman who was once your sister. The woman who fought with you to free Winterfell?"

'I don't know. Excuse me." He rises, to retire to his bed. He has the beginnings of a plan, but he will need to think it over, as he rests.

**Notes:**

1\. "In war, all laws are silent" is a quote from Cicero.

2\. Sovereign immunity from prosecution has been a tricky legal argument for centuries. Some countries do indeed treat Heads of State/Heads of Government as being immune from prosecution for acts which they committed in that capacity. Sansa's arguments are similar to those made by Mary Queen of Scots at both her trials.

3\. Generally speaking, a person can't be convicted on the basis of hearsay evidence (ie people have to give evidence about things that they actually saw or heard. So, the commandant could give evidence that Norrey ordered him to kill prisoners, but he couldn't give evidence that Sansa gave such an order, unless he witnessed her doing so). This is probably far too sophisticated a concept for a court in a Game of Thrones type world, but I am a solicitor, and I enjoy a good courtroom argument.

NB one reader has pointed out that the Church did have a rule against admitting hearsay evidence. Church courts could be quite sophisticated. The conviction of Joan of Arc was overturned on grounds that would be familiar to modern jurists such as bias on the part of the judges, failure to consider relevant evidence, failure to give the accused reasonable opportunity to rebut the charges against her.

4\. One of the difficulties in condemning people for war crimes is the absence of written evidence or witnesses who can confirm that the person at the top gave them order


	30. The Trial Part Two

"Good luck, my Lady, I mean it", says Maege. They had finished breaking their fast together, on the second morning of the trial, and were about to return to the Great Hall, with the guards.

"You're not meant to say that" she replies, smiling. "I don't think your mother would approve." In truth, they have become very friendly over the past few weeks, to the point where Maege has even suggested arguments that Sansa should be putting forward. Unusual behaviour from a gaoler, to say the least, but welcome.

"My mother wants justice to be done. Whatever the outcome, I shall speak up for you. "

"Thank you, it's a relief to know that Arya is not my only friend in the Great Hall. I suppose we'd better return there." Sansa gets up, and they leave the room with the guards. On arrival, she resumes her seat, and waits for the judges to return.

When they do, Lady Mormont addresses her directly. "Lady Sansa, we have considered your submissions. The only evidence that has been put forward in respect of the murders at Garstang comes from the commandant who perpetrated those murders. So far as we can tell, there is no evidence which directly links you to that crime. As you have correctly pointed out, his evidence is hearsay, and it cannot be used to convict you. You must of course bear some degree of responsibility for actions carried out by your subordinates; it therefore remains to be determined whether you are guilty of manslaughter. But, a charge of murder requires evidence of intent, and we accept that there is no evidence that could be used to demonstrate such intent. You are therefore acquitted of the murder of prisoners at Garstang. It must follow that you cannot be convicted of any count of murder of prisoners, unless there is direct evidence that you ordered such murder. " Sansa keeps a poker face, although she grins inwardly. "As to the submission that you are immune from prosecution as sovereign, we shall reserve judgement on that point until the end of the trial." She rises to say "I thank your Ladyship".

An endless procession of witness continues, largely to allege atrocities committed by her armies against the Smallfolk who were sworn to rebel lords. It turns out that the death of her husband is a godsend. "Ser Raymond had operational command of my armed forces. Had Queen Yara not executed him, he would have been able to give evidence on these points. I left the conduct of military affairs to my late husband." Dustin is growing increasingly frustrated.

"Do you take responsibility for anything that your soldiers did? What of Lord Ryswell's rebellion. You suppressed that yourself. You cannot blame the murder of villagers on your husband."

"Nor do I seek to. But, I dispute that I committed murder. I acknowledge that I ordered the execution of adult males who were capable of bearing arms. I spared the women and children."

"Spared them to starve to death!"

"I am not responsible for what happened to them, after my soldiers left them. My lords, if I am guilty of murder for ordering the execution of adult males whose lord rose in rebellion against me, why, every Great House in the Seven Kingdoms is stained with murder. What did I do that any other king or lord would not do? This was no more than a typical and lawful act of war.

"Have you spent your whole life, in denial, refusing to see anything you find distasteful. Refusing to listen to anything you find disagreeable?" snaps Dustin.

"Not in the least. I'm looking at you, and listening to you", she ripostes. There is general laughter. Even Alysanne Mormont smiles.

More witnesses appear over the next couple of days. She feels she is getting the better of the exchanges with Dustin, and casting doubt on the testimony of the majority of the witnesses.

"But, in the end, does any of it matter?" she asks Maege, at dinner, on the fourth day of the trial. "My enemies cannot allow me to live."

"Have faith in my mother. She is a good woman."

The fifth day is more difficult. She is questioned in detail over the death of Robbett Glover's brother. She argues that his death was a lawful execution for treason, but has no choice to admit he was condemned without trial, and denied the right to trial by combat. Would to the Gods, she had never uttered the words "Fire is the champion of House Stark!"

The following day, witnesses are brought forward to testify that they or family members were sold to slavers on Sansa's orders. "I entirely deny that I sold anyone into slavery" she responds coolly. There is more angry muttering in the Court. "I have provided you with ample documentary proof" (she addresses the judges) that the terms of the agreements which I reached provided for men and women to work as indentured labourers, for a period of time, and to be paid wages. Children were to be taken on as apprentices. This differs little from the practice on estates across the Seven Kingdoms, and is certainly preferable to the thraldom which is the norm on the Iron Islands. " She notices Jon glaring at her, before shaking his head.

"And what steps did you take to ensure that these terms were enforced," asks Dustin.

"I instructed my officials to ensure that the terms of the agreements were honoured. Again, I have provided documentary evidence to that effect."

"Or you sought merely to cover your tracks? And, inevitably, the relevant officials are all dead or in hiding?"

"It is scarcely my fault that I was subjected to a war of aggression, resulting in the death or flight of my ministers."

Finally, on the seventh day, the confrontation with the man who had been her brother. "You have already admitted, that you broke an oath, not to reveal my parentage, which you took before a heart tree. You knew that I had no desire to be king, yet you sought to force a battle for the succession between myself and Daenerys Targaryen. You put both our lives at risk."

"I did, and I make no apology for it. I had fought to establish the independence of the North. You were sent to Dragonstone to negotiate a military alliance between equals. We would receive military aid against the Dead; we would give military aid against Cersei Lannister. Instead, you threw away your crown the moment Daenerys Targaryen took you into her bed. You lied to me and to your vassals that you had no choice in the matter, but that is not true. You chose to give up your crown to her, after she had seduced and corrupted you. Why should I not seek to set the pair of you against each other? She was a tyrant, and you were a coward, unworthy of the North."

"Aye, I lied. Our vassals were on the point of open revolt. I took the coward's way out, and sought to pin the blame for giving up the crown on my aunt. I deserve every moment of my exile, for that alone. But, let's not pretend your own motives were pure. You schemed for a crown from the outset. That's why you set us against each other, and that's why you and your brother sent me into exile. And, the pair of you have spent the past fifteen years, frightened that I'll take your crowns back from you. You call me coward, and I daresay you're right. I was a coward to let you plot against Daenerys, and do nothing. I was a coward to let you belittle a woman who placed her life on the line to defend you, as you hid underneath Winterfell. And, I've been a coward to let you burn the North and starve its people for the past fifteen years, and do nothing. I marched against the Beast of Bolton, and I should have marched against you".

By now, the Great Hall is in uproar. She loses herself to anger. "The Others take you Jon. Mother was right about you. It should have been you that Ser Jaime Lannister threw from the tower!" Arya cries out with horror, before burying her head in her hands.

"Silence in Court!" screams Lady Mormont. "We shall deliver our verdict on the morrow. Now, all of you, get out!"

**Notes:**

1\. Most legal systems differentiate between forms of killing that are culpable but which fall short of murder (typically called manslaughter) , and murder which usually requires intent. This distinction is a an ancient one, and would have been understood by medieval judges.

2\. Sansa's quip at Dustin's expense is taken from Neil Hamilton's comment to George Carman QC, during his libel case against the Guardian.

3\. And What Will Ye Leave to Your Own Sister Dear, Sweet Brother, the first in this series of stories, deals with the crushing of Lord Ryswell's rebellion.

4\. In series 7 of A Game of Thrones, Jon voluntarily bent the knee to Daenerys. In Season 8, he claimed to his lords that he did it to save the North. This was probably bad writing. The alternative is that Jon was a fool or a knave.

5\. In the book, A Game of Thrones, but not in the show, Catelyn said to Jon "it should have been you" after spending days with Bran after Jaime threw him from the tower. Many readers loathe Catelyn as a result


	31. All Unhappy Families

The old woman stares out across the moorlands that run South from Castle Black, her home for nearly twenty years. Her prison. She has outlived the man who was her brother, her sister, all her family, other than her daughter, who lives still in Braavos, a Magistra of the Iron Bank. King Roderick granted her permission, two years ago, to meet Catelyn and her sons at Eastwatch, but she doubts if they will ever meet again. Her cough has worsened in recent months, and she suspects it will not improve. Her visitors are few, and she prefers it that way. She enjoyed some notoriety during the first years she was here, but most of her visitors were drawn by prurient curiosity, she soon realised.

Her trial had ended with her being convicted of three charges of murder. She was either acquitted of the rest, or convicted of manslaughter instead. The Court had accepted that she was not directly guilty of enslavement, but held that she had recklessly endangered the lives and liberty of those she had deported. They had declined to rule on the issue of oathbreaking, and had determined that her crimes were not covered by sovereign immunity from prosecution. As a convicted murderer, of high birth, she had been sentenced to death by the sword, such sentence to be suspended for so long as she remained confined to a fortress. Jon had suggested she be sent to Castle Black. "We deserve each other" he insisted. He had smiled nastily at the judges, telling them there was always work for servants up at Castle Black, even those who lacked a hand. For a time, he had delighted in finding offensive tasks for her to perform, cleaning latrines and floors, or hauling coal. After several months, that came to an end, due to pressure from Arya. Her and Jon's mutual hatred had gradually cooled down to indifference, over the years. Her daughter and Lady Maege made funds available to let her live in reasonable comfort.

Jon died three years ago, Arya nine months previously. Lady Maege, who visits her occasionally, and writes continuously, tells her that Bran is dying. But, he has been witless for so long that it will make no difference to the South. In truth, they have been without a decent ruler for nearly eighty years, when King Aegon died at Summerhall. There is talk, apparently, of abolishing the Southern monarchy completely, instituting a council of nobles instead. She sighs, turning to walk back along the parapet, to the steps that lead to her chambers. Ever since she was young, she dreamed of being a great ruler. Instead she became the Queen Who Lost the North. What did her plots and schemes amount to in the end? Nothing but ashes and dead ends. She knows she will shortly breathe her last. What will await her, then? Hopefully, nothing at all. Otherwise, nothing that can be good.


End file.
